Private Lives and Public Drama
by Mira - deastrumquodvicis
Summary: Moriarty decides to screw with Sherlock and John's lives to the point where very serious mental issues abound. John is the only one who can hold Sherlock together—and keep him off the drugs. Warnings: rape, torture, language, drug use, attempted noncon, sex, blood fetish, murder, attempted suicide.
1. Plunged Into Emotions

John sat down at the kitchen table with his laptop. His blog was proving one thing to him, and that was the fact that his boyfriend was ashamed of him. Or at least, that's how he felt.  
>He'd been getting sarcastic comments from Sherlock all day, and he really just wanted to know where he stood.<p>

Sherlock trudged out of his room, dressing-gown hanging from one shoulder, as he did when cross. It was plain that he had no plans to leave the flat today.

"Don't give me that look, it's annoying."

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a packet of crisps. He ate one before frowning at the bag.

"Stale."

He (quite literally) threw the bag out. He returned to his bedroom, but before he closed the door, he shot back:

"I'm not ashamed of you—the experiment is going rather well, in fact—I just don't like other people prying into our private lives and even more private habits."

John sighed. "Are you _happy_?"  
>It seemed an odd question to ask of Sherlock. He drummed his fingers on the desk. No reply, maybe it was because he closed his bedroom door.<br>"Sherlock?" he asked, knocking on the door. "Are you going to talk to me?"

Slowly the door opened. Sherlock spoke more softly than he had a few moments ago.

"John, while I'm not particularly happy at this exact instant, I think you should know that since you came into my life, I'm the happiest I've ever been and it pains me to think that you would think otherwise."

"You don't really show it…" John ushered as he went to slump down on the couch. Why did it have to be difficult? He just wanted a simple relationship with the man he loved.

Sherlock sighed. What he was about to say, he found extremely hard to admit, but if he couldn't tell John, who could he tell?

"Growing up, my brother and I were encouraged not to show our feelings, particularly the softer ones. It stayed with me. And…the last person I loved…betrayed me and took my heart with her. My parents gave me no sympathy in the matter."

"I don't mean to hurt you, Sherlock. But did you show her your feelings in the relationship? Maybe that had something to do with it." He suddenly felt very sickly, imagining somebody with Sherlock's love, somebody who wasn't him. "Although, that is no excuse for betrayal."

"Of course I did. We were young, and, in my pubescent state, she was highly attractive. Don't be jealous," he added, reading John like a book, "I didn't know you then. I was sixteen. And you're the first person I've had sexual intercourse with." He coughs, mildly embarrassed and extremely awkward.

"What, me?" This seemed highly unlikely. Sherlock was the most handsome man that he'd ever laid eyes on, and it just seemed so unbelievable.  
>"You never told me that, Sherlock." John felt his eyes become teary. "Why me, anyway?"<p>

"You were here, I was curious, and I figured that since we're close despite our personality differences, I figured you wouldn't mind. Plus it's never dull." He smiled and blushed slightly, a hint of colour penetrating his cold pale cheeks.

"I hope it wasn't a let down for you." He noticed Sherlock blushing. He thought there was no better time than the present to ask what he'd been wondering from the start:  
>"Not to ask odd questions, but you've never stated your sexuality. I mean, are you gay or.." John trailed off. He wasn't so sure of his own, he'd liked women his whole life until he met Sherlock.<p>

Sherlock, too, was unsure. He sighed, and put on his thinking-harder-than-usual face. "That was part of the goal of the experiment. One of my clients before you arrived had posed a similar question and I hadn't known how to answer."

"Everything is an experiment to you, my love." He sighed. "I just hope that I'm different. Because you're different, special." John smiled, and stood up to hug Sherlock.

Sherlock returned the smile, and, somewhat awkwardly, the hug.

John looked up, he really wanted to come out with his feelings, so without hesitation- "I love you."

Mildly surprised at John's tone, Sherlock replied simply "I know." He smiled warmly.

_He never ever said it back._ Not once. It was beginning to upset John. "I'm gonna, yeah." and he walked off into his room and crawled under his covers.

"Oh," said Sherlock, reluctant to break off the hug. He followed John into his room. "You're crying," he observed. "Have I said something wrong?"

"You don't love me do you." He sniffed, expecting the most negative answer possible.

Sherlock stood, stunned. He spoke slowly and with extreme clarity. "Love…is a complex emotion. It's hard to explain and I'm not sure about whether or not I feel it. You know I have difficulty with emotions. What I do know is that if anything happened to you, I would lose my mind with grief. I would commit any of a number of crimes to avenge the wrongs inflicted upon you. So perhaps, I do. I must confess to not being entirely sure."

"Well, you loved that girl when you were sixteen, right? So you much remember how that felt… I know what love feels like, only because I've never felt like this before." He went quiet and sat on the bed with his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't of pushed you into this."

"What I felt when I was sixteen was hormone-fueled infatuation," Sherlock gently corrected. "This…has been far more cemented. And as I recall," he said with a soft smile, "It was my idea."

John thought back to when Sherlock said they should be together, and he said 'We should _court_'. He giggled.  
>"Yes it was your idea, and it's the best you've ever had." He nuzzled into his shoulder. "let me know when you're sure of your feelings, it's important to me."<p>

Sherlock didn't quite know what to do. On the one hand, his feelings were no more than slight (the curse of being a sociopath), but he knew that if he said as much, he could hurt John, and that would be the worst thing in the world. He settled for rubbing John's head like you would a cat.

"I will. You'll be the second to know."

"I'm gonna take a nap, you can cuddle up to me if you get tired or whatever. I'm exhausted." He pecked Sherlock on the cheek and flopped down under the covers like a rag-doll.

Sherlock lay on top of the covers next to John, staring at the ceiling. Their conversation had made him doubt his own feelings towards the man. On the one hand, he cared about him very much—and caring was not something Sherlock normally did. On the other, he'd read about the effects of love on the brain and wasn't quite feeling them. Did he love John as more than a friend? Did he really and truly desire to spend the rest of his life as John's Other? His brain whirled around and around for hours, coming to no definite conclusion.

It must've been early morning when John woke up. Sherlock had his head rested slightly on his shoulder. John watched him for awhile, looking at the rise and fall of his chest and the acute frown he had. He ran his hands through his hair, softly- not wanting to wake him up because it was a rare occurrence for Sherlock to sleep.

Sherlock was dreaming about, of all things, the first Christmas he could remember. Except that the tree was on fire. He and Mycroft shared their presents, three-year-old Sherlock deciding that eating Mycroft's EZ Bake set was a good idea, and Mycroft cleaning the saliva off with a handkerchief. But then his memory distorted and the tree fell on top him, laughing with Moriarty's voice, burning him, but then two strong hands lifted it off. John as he was today.

"Why did you leave me?" dream-John asked.

"I didn't know I had," toddler Sherlock replied in adult Sherlock's voice. And then John began to wither, to wrinkle—no, to _decay_ before Sherlock's very eyes.

Sherlock awoke with a start and in a cold sweat. His wildly terrified eyes locked onto John's and then Sherlock hugged him, muttering "I'll never leave."

"What's wrong?" he jumped as Sherlock woke up. "Are you okay?" He uttered in a soothing voice whilst stroking down the back of his neck.

"Nightmare," he muttered, barely constraining his tears (tears!) as he hugged John, still not sure if it was love or deep camaraderie, but he couldn't bring himself to let go.

"Are you.. crying?" John was shocked as he felt something wet drip down his back whilst he embraced him. "Dear, don't cry. You've nothing to worry about, I'm here." He pulled away to look at his face. "I promise." He pulled him closer and kissed him on the end of the nose.

Sherlock sighed. "You always know how to make me feel better," he said, with a nervous laugh. "Thank you."

"What were you dreaming about?" John inquired, whilst he stroked his cheek. "It's meant to be me who has the nightmares," he mocked.

"You," he said. "You said I'd left you and then you rotted right in front of me. That was after you saved me from being crushed by a burning Christmas tree." He sighed, exhausted. "I think perhaps I'm getting ill," he said, concerned.

"What an odd dream, do you _feel _ill?" he frowned, moving a piece of hair away from Sherlock's eye. He wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss him, but he was trying to take things slow. Although he didn't see how sex on the first official date was slow.

"Yes," he said simply. "I feel slightly feverish. As though my brain's tried to do too much at once. That's an odd thing for me to feel, as I'm sure you know. Not sure why it's happening now," he finished, looking concerned for his own well-being. _Maybe it's the fact that I'm struggling with emotions, _he thought. _I've always been better without them overwhelming me. Or without them at all._

"Your brain doing too much at once? I've never ever heard the like. You're so intelligent, I only wish I could be half the man you are." John looked sad and pulled away from Sherlock. "I can't even be that."

He smiled, glowing a bit with pride. "Oh, you'd be surprised. There are times when I wish I had half your heart."

"You have all of it, silly. In a love sense. You know when you need to be sensitive, and even when you don't you _try._ And that's what I appreciate, the little things you do." He placed his hand on Sherlock's boney knee. "You'll always have me."

Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, Sherlock burst into tears. Not gentle tears as he could command, but deep racking sobs, complete with shuddering breaths.

Sherlock was sobbing. "What did I do? I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry!" He was panicked because he'd never ever seen Sherlock react in such a way. He flung his arms around his neck- "Please tell me I haven't upset you, I'd never forgive myself!"

"That's just it," he manages between sobs. "I don't know! I'm not used to any of this! I'm not used to feeling! It…I feel like I'm drowning! Or like I'm having withdrawals again!" He curls up into a ball. "I don't know what is going on in my head! Well," he admits with a slight humorous grin, "I do know the biochemistry of it, but I don't know why it's happening to me like this! It's like someone's taken reason and sanity suddenly away. And I hate it! I hate this feeling of helplessness, of being a slave to emotions I didn't know I could have!" He moves his hands to his face and curls up tighter, feeling very ill.

"You're not ill…" John sighed. "I feel like this all the time where you're concerned." He cuddled up to the shuddering little ball on the bed. "It's okay, you're not a slave at all- you're just confused. You'll be okay, trust me."

He sniffled. "So…this is normal? This is what typical feelings are? God, how do you _cope_?"

"You wouldn't believe how many people have come to the doctors surgery complaining about this exact thing, they all get told the same thing. Don't worry, it feels like a physical ache but it's really all inside your head. You're just.." John nervously coughed, "I think you're love sick." Wow, this was awkward.

"Psychosomatic pain caused by the neurological effects of love? But wouldn't the term 'lovesick' imply that I'm in withdrawals, having been separated from the person I love?" He felt literally sick. "I didn't know…how is this possible? It's a well-known fact that my emotions are limited—it's one of the defining characteristics of sociopathy—so how has the dam so spontaneously burst?" He shook and burst into another sobbing fit. "I hate this. It feels wrong. I can't control what my body is doing! Argghgh!" He sounded as though he was in pain.

"Stop crying, dear." John patted his back. "You sound like all the other people who have asked me for help. I mean, I don't wish to force you into something, but it _does _appear to be.. you know." Sherlock continued to sob. "Shh, come here." He pulled his head onto his chest and stroked through his hair. "It's okay, you'll live."

Sherlock was still confused by the sudden reaction he was having. He couldn't control himself, and he was most concerned by it. But hearing John's heartbeat, a sort of natural lullaby to him, and having John's fingers through his hair made it better. Not gone, but better. He slowly drifted off, crying, but feeling oddly like he had as a child, when Mycroft used to comfort him after their father had chewed him out…

It had taken all of about ten minutes for Sherlock to fall asleep before John quietly and slowly tucked him in and edged out of the room. This gave him a chance to tidy up. He started by cleaning the dishes, then emptying the fridge(goodbye severed head!), then he fixed the couch and just as he was plumping up the cushions.. There was a little scrunched up photograph of Sherlock and Mycroft as children. Sherlock looked so forlorn, and Mycroft seemed to be his happy self. John wondered if Sherlock even knew the meaning of happy. After around 20 minutes of analyzing the photograph, he tucked it under the cushion and started vacuuming.

Somewhere, his subconscious registered that John was no longer holding him. The dream he had of lying in the sunlight on the cliffs of Dover quickly turned on him and he was seeing himself, dead at the bottom of the cliff. He had fallen. John hadn't saved him, and somehow he couldn't wake up. He knew he was dreaming—no other logical explanation (and even in his dreams, he was always analyzing and noticing things most people didn't), but he couldn't shake himself.

Then in his dream, another body came flying at him from the top of the cliffs. John, shouting his name as he fell, ready to join his boyfriend in the other life. But he still couldn't wake up. Even the inhuman scream that came from the ocean wasn't enough to rouse him. He reached down to John's broken face and stroked it.

"John?"

But he felt nothing—his hands went through John's face. He was a ghost, and John wasn't.

He still couldn't wake up.

John heard a muffled scream from his bedroom. Immediately he ran in and held Sherlock in his arms, trying to wake him.

In his dream, he was screaming for all he'd lost. He fought to wake up, trapped inside the nightmare which had lost all colour and sound, and then he heard John's voice calling for him. Like a life buoy, it caught him around the soul, and guided him back to the shores of consciousness.

He woke up, his face resembling that of a terrified child.

"John?" he barely managed to say. He was shaking.

"You bloody scared me." John answered shakily, "what happened?" He felt Sherlock shake in his arms.

"Nightmare," he managed without stuttering, though it was hard. "John, I hurt. I feel like I've been stabbed in the chest." He winced. "I'm being literal. I think…" He trailed off momentarily. "I think you may have to get a few groceries. We're out of beans and there's only one slice of bread. We're also getting dangerously low on toilet paper. Plus—and I hate to ask you to be my errand boy—I need some papers delivered to Scotland Yard. I can't be seen like this, John." He was struggling to keep up a pretense of normalcy with the words he was saying. It calmed him a bit.

"I've been shopping already, when you were asleep- and I'll go and drop off your papers when I'm sure you're okay, not until." John frowned slightly, feeling Sherlock's forehead. "You don't have a temperature, hm." He plumped up his pillows and made sure he was comfortable. "Right, I'll be back within the hour, if you need anything, text me." He kissed him on the end of his nose and turned out of the room, down the stairs and out of the house.

He had less than an hour. The instant he heard the doors close, he whipped off the covers and went into the kitchen, trying the only thing he could think of to numb both the physical and psychological pain. After all, it was fairly common practice, though he'd never tried it (he hated the way sedatives worked on him).

Shaking the half-opened umbrella in his hand to get rid of excess rain water, Mycroft fastened it shut before quickly stepping up the stairs that lead to Sherlock and John's flat. Giving the door a tap with the handle of his umbrella to let Sherlock know he was coming in, he pushed it open carefully and stepped inside, walking into the living room area to find his sudden drunkard of a brother.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up from where he'd been feeling the chair with his mouth. "My…croft," he said. He blinked hard. "Hi." He pointed at the half-empty whiskey bottle. "Wanna drink?" He grinned stupidly, and then hiccuped.

Letting out a sigh, Mycroft brought a hand to his head to rub at his temples, before striding over to the half-empty bottle Sherlock was pointing at. Picking it up with a quick glance at the label to see exactly what it was his brother had decided to drown his sorrows with, he frowned and set it down on the table a little further away. "No, I don't. And you're not having any more either. Exactly how much have you had? Something tells me this isn't the only bottle."

He screwed up his face in thought. "No," he said after a while. "I think it's been th'only one. But, you know, the less body the quicker it works and I'm not exactly voluptus. Voluptius. Big. It's just a potent" (he pronounced the word slowly and deliberately) "vintage. Present from a client." He scratched his head a bit too vigorously. "Never thought I'd open it after five years. 'S quite good, though."

"What happened with John?" He asked, changing the subject from what Sherlock had been drinking, to what had caused it in the first place. Taking a seat in the chair opposite, he hooked his umbrella over his arm and leaned back, watching Sherlock carefully like a hawk. "Beside what you already told me."

He waved semidismissively. "He asked why I chose him and then he sort of asked if I loved him and I don't know, and it sort of sent me into an emotional spiral 'cause I can't figure it out and then I fell asleep and had a nightmare where he saved me but then rotted and it hurt. I dunno why but then I started crying and it felt like I was drowning in emotions which you know I don't normally have and then I fell asleep again and had another nightmare where I fell off a cliff and he followed but I was a ghost so I…" he trailed off, tears coming into his eyes. "It _hurt_, Mycroft, like I'd been stabbed in the chest. I couldn't think of anything to do until I thought of Harry and that bottle." He sat down and buried his face in his hands. "And I still don't know if I love him as more than my only friend. B'cause he is my only friend." He reached for the whiskey again, but his depth perception was screwed up because of the alcohol and he missed. "Can you 'splain? I dunno! I hate not knowing and I can't control my crying and it feels like I'm being ripped apart! Why, Mycroft?" He was certainly crying now, though not the sobs he suffered from earlier. "John says it's lovesickness, but wuddn't that be more withdrawal than a high? IT'S NOT MAKING SENSE!" His face was tortured.

Mycroft's expression softened as Sherlock started to talk. It hurt him to see Sherlock in such a way, it really did. You could say anything you like about their apparently rocky relationship, but it was clear Mycroft cared about his brother a great deal. Standing up (and pushing the whiskey bottle further out of Sherlock's reach, just in case) he walked over and crouched down in front of him. After patting down his pockets in search for a handkerchief and failing, Mycroft pulled the red patterned pocket square from his suit and held it out for Sherlock to wipe the tears away. "I don't know. Only you can tell how you feel, but drinking certainly won't help, no matter how much it seems like the answer at the moment." He spoke in a low, calm tone. "If you need time to figure it out, then give it time."

He took a deep breath. "John seems t'spect an answer and I don't have one t'give. God knows I could never hurt him, but I can't figure out what my mind is doing so I don't know if I love him. I thought people were s'pposed to automatically know or something about love. But I don't. D'sat mean I'm not in love?" He blew his nose into the handkerchief. "I don't know what it's like to love." He hugged his knees. "Whatever it is that I'm feeling, it doesn't feel right. I want it to go away. God, I feel stupid. I feel like the time when I was ten and those kids came and pushed me off the slide…I couldn't stop crying and I didn't know why. But then you came and made me feel better." He breathed a deep but shuddery breath. "I feel ill, Mycroft. I feel like I've been poisoned. My insides are squirming and I feel disembowelled" (another word he pronounced carefully) "I just need—I dunno what I need. Help me," he said, glazed eyes staring into Mycroft's. "Please, just help me figure out what's gone wrong with my brain and body. Failing that, just give me back the bottle so I can sleep peacefully. 'S a sedative."

Mycroft stared back, holding his gaze for a few moments before looking down with a sigh, mulling it over. "Then John will simply have to wait until you have an answer to give, I'm afraid. I'm sure he'll understand." Forcing a small smile, he shook his head. "That's probably all the alcohol, Sherlock. First, you should rest. At least try and sleep off the drink." Standing up properly once more, he dusted off his suit jacket before holding a hand out to Sherlock to pull him up. "When John comes home, and once you can think a little more clearly, maybe you should have a little chat. Unless you would rather me talk to him for you?" Of course, Mycroft didn't know how to explain how Sherlock was feeling any better than he was, but at least he would be able to get John to back off the subject until Sherlock was ready to talk about it himself.

Sherlock staggered as he got to his feet, feeling not too much better, but somewhat relieved that he'd managed to express himself a bit. "It's not th'alcohol. The drink's made it better, 'f only a little." He blinked wildly—he'd stood up too fast and was now feeling quite dizzy. "No, I'll talk to him. Don't know what I'll say but I'm sure I'll thinka somthing." His eyes had trouble focussing on his brother's face. "'S kinda sparkly," he said before passing out.

So, when John came home, a bit later than he said he would (traffic and all that), he found Sherlock sitting in front of the fire, petting the skull as though it were a cat and staring distantly into the flames.

"Hello, dear." John strolled in cheerfully. "What's wrong with you?" He frowned, Sherlock was clearly better, but it just wasn't possible in the short amount of time he'd left him. Sherlock didn't even look up, and when John slumped down next to him, he didn't even flinch.

"Sedation is a funny thing," said Sherlock distantly and slightly slurred. "It acts like a sponge. It absorbs the emotions, even though it stops the…brainpower." He hiccuped slightly. "I feel much better. You have Harry to thank. She gave me th'idea."

It was only then that John noticed the half-empty whiskey bottle that a client had given them as a thank-you gift some months ago.

"What the fuck! I'm gonna kill her!" He grabbed the bottle from the floor and smashed it against the wall. "I can't believe that YOU of all people would do this. I thought you were fucking intelligent!" And with that he slammed into his bedroom, swearing rather loudly as he went.

Sherlock frowned. That particular bottle of whiskey had been a thank-you gift from a client, and it had been worth about seven hundred pounds. He blinked slowly, watching the flames dance, trying to work out why John had reacted so violently. It wasn't like he'd become an alcoholic or anything. Just that for the first time in his life he was obliviously drunk. Not too oblivious, though, to realize how much John's anger hurt. It was as if the knife were twisted again, just as he'd dulled the pain of it being inside him.

"No need to shout," he whispered, a tear rolling down his face, a proper flood on its heels.

John tore through his room like a hurricane, ripping posters off the wall, throwing books, howling and screaming. He loved Sherlock more than anything, yet he abused his body like Harry, like John's father, and he couldn't see him end up like that. He didn't give a fuck about the monetary value of the Whiskey he'd just smashed, he just wanted his Sherlock to be okay.

He slowly walked out of the room about 10 minutes later when he'd calmed down, only to find Sherlock in the same position as he had been before, only this time he was crying, but with no sound.

"I'm sorry." John whispered, as he sat next to him, grabbing onto his hand. "You have to understand, that my dad died because of his addiction to that so called 'pain killer' the only thing its kills is.. well.. you. Who you are, who you were, what you want, who you want.. I want you to be safe. I love you." He sighed, and started to cry himself.

"John," he said, his voice shaking. "I want to say I love you too, but I think that would be a lie. I thought it was an automatic thing that when you're in love, there can be no doubts. The fact that I don't know—" He choked. "I don't want to hurt you, but I—" His face contorted and he couldn't say anything else because, for one, he was finding it hard to breathe through his tears; two, he didn't know what to say; and three, he'd just thrown himself into a full hug, nearly knocking the smaller man down, clinging to him as if it were his last day on Earth.

"You're wrong, though. Everyone has doubts. It creeps up on you, it's never a definite thing. I'm certain because I've been in many relationships. I knew when I saw you going to take a dodgy pill from a cabbie that I would-" He didn't want to think about it, "_die_ if I lost you. The way I feel is different to anything else I've felt before, and if you're not sure- that's okay. You need time, and I'll be here either way. If you do love me, if you don't. I promise." He sobbed into his shoulder like he used to do with Harry, when his dad got violent. "Just don't hurt yourself any more, _please_."

"Don't you see, John? That's just it—I don't know if I _can_ love. It's foreign to me, more so than any other emotion. Today—I—it hurts, John. All of these feelings—all—it's like—I don't know what it's like, it just—I'm _scared_, more frightened than I've ever been in my life. Frightened of losing my only friend. Frightened that I'm turning into something I'm not. Frightened that there's something wrong with me." His words were turning into a pleading whimper. "Please, John, what is happening to me? Why, suddenly, after all this time, have the gates of hell been opened? It hurts, and all I can think of is how good a friend you are and how I constantly want to impress you, to not disappoint you, and now I've gone and done just that and there's no point any more. Please, say it's fine. Please say you can fix me. I'm broken, John, broken." He held John tightly, shaking with terror and confusion and drunkenness. He'd never cried as much as he was crying now, not combined in his whole life.

"I'm scared too." John sobbed, so much that it was hard to catch his breath. "You'll never lose me, I swear to that, really." He tried to get as close as he could to him, almost so they were one, big, heaped, snivelling mess on the floor. "You're just drunk, you'll feel so much better tomorrow afternoon when your head has sorted itself out, trust me." John looked him right in the eyes- "No matter what, I'm here. Even if you just want to be my friend, I'll always be here. I'll never leave, well.. Not until you send me away, at least." He held onto his hands and they slowly fell asleep on the rug in front of the fire, still breathing shakily.

And for the first time that day, Sherlock slept peacefully and without dreams or nightmares.

Mrs Hudson woke John up the next morning, by vacuuming rather loudly downstairs, whilst singing 'I just can't wait to be king'. His head was pounding, of course the three bottles of red wine the night before should have forewarned him. Sherlock remained asleep, and John lay still, next to him for some time, watching him purse his lips, or sigh. It was so difficult for John, having to watch this brilliant, beautiful and almost perfect being and not show his feelings.

John watched him, quietly, remembering the first night that he and Sherlock showed any sort of attraction. It was all rather quick- it started with a joke, then a play fight, and then a full on romp. It was so difficult for him to understand, how could Sherlock just give his virginity away to somebody if he didn't know that he loved them? Was it just to get it out of the way? Was it just so John wouldn't leave him? It was all to hard to comprehend.

He watched his chest rise and fall, so fragile. He lightly placed his head against it, and listened. _dundun dundun dun dun. _"So he does have a heart, huh?" John thought- Moriarty hadn't been wrong. He continued to listen until he slipped back into a warm and cosy slumber.

Sherlock opened his eyes and winced at the sound of the vacuum. He looked at John, somewhat confused, as the memory of the previous day was fuzzy at best. He could remember lying on the bed with John, Mycroft coming over, and blogging, but not the specifics. His brain had decided his breakdown was something best not remembered, and had enlisted the alcohol to help. "John…what?" He wiped the drool from the side of his mouth, somewhat embarassed. He looked around at the empty wine bottles and the remains of the whiskey bottle. "Did we…get drunk?"

"You drank half a bottle'a 700 pound whiskey." John mumbled, half asleep. "Shh, go back 'sleep." John shivered, he was suddenly very aware of the lack of blanket around him. "S'cold." He groaned. "Put the fire on." He curled up like a cat around Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock was slightly alarmed at his own confusion. "Why would I do that?" he mused to himself before looking down at John. "It would be rather difficult to put the fire on with you attached to my legs," he pointed out.

(the memory of the sound of John smashing the bottle bubbled to his mind.)

"You should be aware, John, that I have nearly no memory of yesterday whatsoever, so either I was very drunk for the entire day (which I honestly don't see happening), I'm seriously ill, or there was some sort of traumatic even which my mind has decided is something best left alone.

If it's the former, I'd like to know, as it seems highly unlikely—I find it odd that I've gotten drunk at all, and, if it hadn't been for this hangover and the empty bottles, I wouldn't believe you. If it's the second one, then we need to consult a neurological physician right away. If it's the latter, don't tell me of the details—if my mind has decided it's best forgotten, I shouldn't argue with its judgement."

Sherlock decided that his missing memories were one mystery he shouldn't try to solve, but he couldn't help but wonder what they were.

"Both, actually." John sighed, suddenly sitting up. "So it's back to this, huh." John edged away from Sherlock. "Right, okay." He stood up and went in the kitchen to grab the milk to make himself some tea. "For fucks sake, keep your body parts out of the fridge."

He made his tea and stormed off to his room, claiming that he had "some work to do" when in actual fact, he just curled up in a ball and sobbed on his bed.

"_Back_ to this?" Sherlock said. "This is how it normally is…" He frowned, and went to his computer to look for clues.

He read through his drunken blog entries (he must have been totally smashed), as well as the things from earlier. He hadn't left any obvious hints, except that he'd wanted to destroy all emotion in himself. So it was an emotional breakdown, caused before the drinking, possibly the cause of it. How strange. The memories were staying fully locked-up, though, and it simultaneously irritated, fascinated, and soothed him. He was protecting himself, though he wasn't aware of why his mind decided to do so.

It really bothered him that he had a whole day missing, and that forgetting it was painful to John, but if it had driven him to drink, which he had long ago sworn he would never ever do, it was probably best left alone.

He stoked the fire, trying to keep from thinking about it. The flames weren't enough to distract him, so he picked up a very old book called _The Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, With Some Obesrvations upon the Segregation of the Queen_ in an attempt to get his mind off of the lack of memory of the previous day.

John came out of his room after about three hours, to find that Sherlock had gone out, leaving no note to say where. Mrs Hudson had left the shopping on the table, and left a post-it. 'Not your housekeeper, I can't keep buying your groceries!'

He decided to sit down and think. The skull almost leered mockingly from the mantel-peice. John ignored it, and pulled out a book from the vast pile Sherlock had left. 'Relationships for dummies.' "Oh my god." John laughed, reading the first page.

Sherlock stood at the florist, trying to remember anything he may have deleted about flower symbolism. He was failing to consciously remember anything about the topic.

"Can I help you, love?" asked the shopkeeper.

Sherlock looked at the assorted flowers.

"I'd like a bouquet of morning glories, yellow tulips, some of those striped carnations, and red and white roses."

"Aww, for your girlfriend, how sweet."

Sherlock shifted awkwardly. He paid without another word, and returned to 221B, the flowers in his hands. Coming up the stairs, he hid them behind his back, and seeing John with Sherlock's _Relationships for Dummies_ book, he coughed. "Yes, well, um…here," he said, handing John the zany bouquet. "I really don't remember yesterday, but going by your reaction this morning, I've upset you…so…I got you flowers." _What am I doing?_ he thought. _Buying flowers? Thank God the jamming devices are on or Mycroft would never let me hear the end of it…_

"Oh my god." John, by this time was crying with laughter. "You are adorable." He took the flowers and went into the kitchen to find something to put them in.  
>"Thank you, by the way." John shouted into the living room, trying not to sound like he was laughing, but it was useless, his sides were starting to ache.<br>He walked back in- "Come here, idiot." He threw his arms around Sherlock. "Thank you for trying, it means a lot to me."

"Adorable. Right." He coughed slightly, unsure about how to take the compliment. He returned the hug. "Well, I'm glad I've done something correctly, when it comes to emotional reactions, though I'm still perplexed as to your reaction this morning." He paused for a few moments. "Did we…" he searched for the colloquialism. "Did we break up?"

"No, we didn't." John said. "You were just acting so differently yesterday, I almost thought we'd made progress, and then-" John thought back to this morning. Sherlock _had _said he didn't want to be reminded. "Never mind. Cup of tea?" He ruffled his flatmates hair and strode into the kitchen, clicking the kettle on.

"Good," he said, only slightly reassured. "Yes, tea would be nice." _What do you mean, 'progress'?_ he desperately wanted to ask, but knew that the answer might cause him to have another breakdown.

What could it have been? There were only so many things in his life that might cause him of all people to lose his mind entirely. Losing John forever was one of them. Losing his intellect was another. Had John threatened to leave him? Had he been held hostage and Sherlock couldn't free him (though obviously someone had to have done.) Neither situation was terribly likely.

"Ah, yes, thank you," he said as he took his tea. He sipped it and it did wonders to relax away some of his hangover.

"Do you _want_ to talk about it? Or are you still being stubborn?" John smirked over the edge of his mug. "Because if you do, it's okay."

"It's a most peculiar sensation, knowing that there's a day missing and that it's been deleted from your memory by your own defence systems." He scratched his head. "On the one hand, I find it most irritating that I have a gap in my life and it could impair any of a number of functions, but on the other, it could very well be like Pandora's Box. Open the lid and a host of horrors could be let loose. Particularly if it was so traumatic that alcohol seemed a viable option." He was staring at his tea. "So far, all I've come to gather is that it was a point of extreme emotion, and that somehow you were involved." He rubbed his head. "Perhaps I need to be in a safe environment or situation, such as hypnotherapy. With the help of a trained hypnotist, I could both regain my memory, and have a sort of mental cushion that would protect me from any ill effects." He winced as the sun came out from behind a cloud.

"I think you need to sort out your head, in some way. So yeah, maybe that's a good idea. I'm going to call Harry, me and her had an argument." John sauntered off, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

"Mm," he said to the air. He opened up his BlackBerry, and searched for a hypnotherapist he'd heard good things about. Having found a Dr. James Norpington, he called for an appointment. He began to explain his reasons to the assistant, who relayed him to the doctor and they spoke about the background of his situation. After the call, Sherlock went to John's door and knocked.

"Hypnotism session in an hour. I assume you're coming?" _Please come. I don't want to be alone for something like that._

"Um, okay then. I didn't think _you_ of all people would have used that as a way out." John said as he popped his head round the door. "I'm gonna get a shower, then, I'll shout you when I'm ready." John kissed him on the end of the nose on his way to the bathroom, and he squeaked the door closed. _'He's such a difficult man, I know he's worth it though', _his entire brain hurt, he just wanted to have Sherlock to himself without difficultly.

"No, John," he said quietly. "I didn't think I of all people would turn to _alcohol_ as a way out. And I need to know why."

John left for his shower, and Sherlock whispered "I need someone there in case something goes wrong." He'd never heard of permanent psychosis being caused by hypnotism, but it was better safe than sorry.

Sherlock sat on the bed, thinking. He knew he was going to be a difficult subject for hypnotism—he was stubborn, tense, and independent. But he had to unblock his memories, and he had to do so in a way that wouldn't send him spiralling out of control (again?) So he took half of one of John's sleeping pills; not enough to knock him out, just enough to relax and calm him. That hypnotist was going to need all the help he could get, after all. Then, waiting for the drug to take their slight effects, he adopted his thinking pose on the bed.

John walked back into the room about twenty minutes later in nothing but a towel, Sherlock was still on the bed.  
>"Um, *awkward cough* I uh.." He found himself locked to the spot, stuttering and not being able to even finish a full sentence.<p>

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at John. The detective was oddly lucid as the drug had worked its way into his system, but he was by no means impaired. He raised an eyebrow.

"Interesting. You are embarrassed to find me sitting here while you're only dressed in a towel and yet you had no such shame during our intercourse." He studied his friend for a few moments. Yes. John had been a good choice to trust his most private experiences with. He was the only one Sherlock felt he could trust completely and utterly. "I think you ought to get dressed. We leave in ten minutes."

John moved slowly to his dresser. He pulled on his underwear first, quickly- he'd never felt so ashamed in his life. It had been so different when they had sex, he didn't have the same feeling of shame, simply because he was analyzing Sherlock at the same time. This situation was out of his comfort zone, just because he didn't know where he stood.

When he was fully dressed and out of the door, Sherlock hailed a cab, and they slid in. John could still feel the traces of shame burning in his cheeks.

Sherlock gave the address to the cabbie, and they set off. He looked at John rather than out the window, studying him.

"Is something wrong? _Did_ our relationship change yesterday? I have no memory of what happened, as well you know, and if I've said something…"

The more Sherlock thought about it, the more puzzled he was. Yesterday he was emotionally distraught (and then drunk), apparently, and there was a possibility that he'd lost all decorum and said some things he would not have otherwise said, and possibly didn't even mean. He may have acted uncharacteristically. John had said earlier that they'd not broken up, and he trusted him not to lie, but something was wrong. Perhaps they'd taken it further? But what was further than sex? Unless John had proposed to him. That sounded like a possible explanation.

"Uh, John," he began delicately. "Did we…I mean, did you…" He wasn't sure how to phrase it and still remain neutral. "I didn't see a ring box in the flat, but…uh…" He was completely stumped as to how to continue that particular line of thought, so he just trailed off and stared out the window.

"What?" John burst out in hysterical laughter. "Oh my god, no, it's just… never mind." He felt his heart sink slightly. Sherlock really had no recollection of what happened, so he thought that he should at least push him in the right direction.  
>"Dear, you used alcohol as a <em>sedative<em>, not as an experiment, or for enjoyment- and as you've said, you wish to know no more, so that's all I shall say." He patted his partners knee, and gazed out of the window.

Sherlock nodded. "Good. I'm glad I didn't drink recreationally. That would have been…disturbing."

A few awkward moments of silence passed before they arrived at the office of Dr. James Norpington. They got out, Sherlock remembering for once to pay the cabbie, and went into the lobby. The hypnotherapist's office was on the third floor, so they took the lift up. They took seats in the waiting room, and they were the only ones there, though that was undoubtedly due to the price of the services and not the unpopularity of the medical professional. After checking in, Sherlock took a seat, feeling slightly woozy, but he had expected that after his half-sleeping pill. He found himself staring at the magazine rack.

John could hear the hypnotherapists voice booming, and he could see Sherlock passed out in the chair, but it wasn't fully restringing in his head. He would hear the odd word like 'love' and 'emotion' and 'weakness', but he felt himself zoning out completely. He found himself daydreaming of Sherlock admitting that he did in fact love him, and giving up his facade.

"Sherlock Holmes," the nurse called. Sherlock snapped out of his trance and subtly nudged John.

"That would be me." He strode through the door and into the therapist's room. It was lit with gently aromatheraputic candles, and Sherlock was already feeling himself drifting off. Dr. Norpington was a small man, shorter than John by a good two inches. He was balding and wore round glasses, though he did have a beard.

"James Norpington," he said. "You must be Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes," replied Sherlock. "We spoke on the phone."

"And who's this?"

"That would be John Watson. He's a friend. Boyfriend," he corrected himself, still not accustomed to the word. "He'll be sitting in with us."

"Ah. Now I know a little bit about your situation, but I'd like to get a few details. You say you have no memory of yesterday?"

Sherlock thought for a bit (it was getting harder in the dark, warm, well-scented room). "I remember snatches. I can recall that I saw my brother at some point. I can remember lying on the bed with John. I remember hearing violently breaking glass. Other than that, nothing." His brow was furrowed—he was concerned about his mental well-being. "I know that I did have significant amounts of alcohol in the latter hours of the day, but going by my blog posts, the reason for it was triggered several hours before. There was apparently some extreme emotional distress."

The doctor nodded. "Would you have a seat?" He gestured to a plush chaise-lounge, and Sherlock sat down.

"One thing before we begin," he said. "If John has any questions pertaining to yesterday, I would like him to ask them while I'm in my cushioned state. Particularly if they could trigger a relapse otherwise."

"Very well." He began speaking slowly and softly to Sherlock, and before long Sherlock blanked into hypnotism.

"Sherlock, I want you to open your eyes in a moment. You will be safe. You will remember everything from yesterday and feel no ill effects. It happened to someone else. It can't hurt you. You will also answer any questions your boyfriend puts to you. You will still be asleep. Can you hear me?"

"Yes," he said, in a tone that was disturbingly (for Sherlock) calm and distant.

"On the count of three. One. Two. Three."

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he stared into the ceiling. "I remember," he whispered. "How strange."

John was worried. His boyfriends voice was hazy, calm. Not like Sherlock at all.  
>After a few moments, Sherlock awoke, claiming he remembered. John didn't see how this would make their relationship any better, in fact, wouldn't it make it all the more awkward?<p>

"Now, Sherlock, tell us what was the crisis point."

Sherlock spoke in an eerily flat voice, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, as if he were a computer recording.

"John asked if I was happy. I am happier with him than I've ever been. Then he told me he loved me and seemed upset when I didn't say it back. I love him. But I am not in love with him. I didn't know how to say it. I still don't. He and my job are my world. My twin passions. But I have observed romantic love in others and I do not feel it. I feel as though I would wither and die without him and yet I have no desire for domesticity. Domestics are boring. Pointless. Cliché. If he were to die I would probably go insane. It is a complex feeling to express. Closer than brothers. Further than husbands. Without romance. Full of love."

He paused for a moment, unaware of anything. But then his face hardened slightly and a hint of panic entered his voice.

"I'm drowning in blood. The scarlet of the crime scene flowing into my lungs. It's taking over my life. I'm scared of becoming Moriarty. I don't want to be him. I don't want to go mad. Help. Please, someone, help."

A tear rolled down his cheek, but the therapist sat too shocked to think of anything.

ohn could feel himself crying, silently. He never _ever_ imagined that he'd see Sherlock cry. He had the sudden urge to jump up and hold him, but the therapist shot him a look that ordered him to stay put. He didn't care that Sherlock wasn't _in _love with him, just knowing that he cared at all was enough.

"Help." The desperation of the word was shocking, spoken with the flat, lucid tone in his voice.

"Has this ever happened before?" the therapist asked. "Has he ever just lapsed into a nightmare while awake?"

"I need my anchor. My life-vest. I'm fighting the tide of madness. Help me."

"I've never had any patient do that. Something must be wrong with him." The therapist turned back to Sherlock. "Sherlock, listen to me. Everything is going to be fine."

Sherlock spoke over the man, clearly unable to hear him. Perhaps that half-sleeping pill on a hangover was a bad idea. "I need someone. I'm falling. Drowning. Dying. I'm not who I was. I've become something I don't want to be." His hands began to clench and unclench. "Help."

"Never. Sherlock, it's okay, it's fine." Despite what the therapist wanted, John held Sherlock, stroking his hair. "Shh, calm down, love. It's okay, I'm here."

Somewhere in his mind, he heard John. It calmed him. There was an eerie disconnect between his mind and body, though. His mind had clawed its way out of hypnosis, fighting to return to John and the waking world, but his body was still under the influence of the hypnosis, hangover, and the half-sleeping pill. He couldn't move at all, now. He was conscious, yes, but his body was completely limp. You could have ripped him limb from limb and he wouldn't have been able to resist. He remembered yesterday in complete detail, and, sure enough, the hypnotic cushion worked—it didn't hurt.

He could not control his body. He was terrified.

"Help."

"DO SOMETHING!" John roared as he looked down on Sherlock, limp. "What the hell is wrong with him?"  
>He was so scared, more scared than he'd ever been in his entire life. He wanted to shake Sherlock back to consciousness, but the therapist said how this could be dangerous. Instead, John sat there holding him, trying to wake him gently. "Please wake up, please."<br>Nothing. This was the worst thing ever, he knew he was still breathing, but he was unable to wake up. He was, by all extensive purposes, comatose.

The therapist was mildly panicked himself, but managed to pull himself together long enough to stick his head out the door to call for sedatives.

"If we put him fully under," he explained, "His brain might reset, like restarting a computer. He'll wake up in a few hours and be alright again. But I do need your consent, if you're his medical proxy."

_No!_ thought Sherlock. _I'm conscious now!_ His body still wasn't reacting to the desperate pleas he was throwing at it. Why couldn't he move? Why couldn't his body do anything? It wasn't an absence seizure. He was still fully aware. But the conscious motor parts of his brain had stopped working for some reason.

"John," he managed, more instinct than decision. That was a good word, he decided. Better than "help". He knew John would make the right choice. He had medical training, admittedly not neurological training, but enough to know the right thing to do.

"No. Absolutely not. I'm not losing him, restarting him would be like killing him, and I'd rather he died the man he is then live the man he isn't. He's Sherlock, and he's got issues, but there is no way in hell you are doing that to him." John refused to move away from Sherlock, for fear that he'd be taken away without his permission. He tried to imagine Sherlock, 'restarted' and he shuddered. It made him feel sick, cold, chilled to the bone. He loved this man, just the way he was.

"Perhaps you've misunderstood," the therapist said. "There wouldn't be any neurological effects. It's just like shutting off the computer when it hangs. All the data is there when you turn it back on."

_I have issues? Not something you should be volunteering to a psychotherapist, John! I had enough trouble with my last therapist…_

For the last few minutes, Sherlock had been staring at John's neck. Until John moved, there wasn't anything else he could look at. As necks go, it was a nice neck. A soothing neck. Why was he thinking about these things? Didn't matter. It calmed him slightly, but not much. And his nose itched. Involuntarily, he spoke again.

"John. Help."

Two words. Two words was progress. Maybe.

"No, he wouldn't want this. He wouldn't do it for me, so I shan't do it for him." John continued to stroke Sherlock's hair, silently begging him to be okay. "The most I'll allow is for you to put him in some sort of bed, he clearly needs to lie down. I'll stay by him, but by no means are you to put him under, clear?" John felt quite helpless, he looked down at Sherlock, to notice that his eyes had been open. He said to him quietly- "It's going to be okay, just try your best to pull through this barrier, please."

Sherlock was angry that he couldn't move. It was worse than being physically restrained. Seeing John on the verge of panic was just as bad. Why couldn't he move? What had caused the parts of his brain responsible for conscious movement to malfunction to such an extreme level? Something must have happened during the hypnosis. A combination of Lunesta, hypnotism, and a hangover. Plus the fact that his own neurochemistry wasn't particularly normal. But what?

He had to keep thinking about the science. If he didn't, part of him would start to panic.

John was panicking. The hypnotist was flabbergasted. No one knew what was going on.

It was similar to those times when one wakes in the middle of the night from a particularly violent nightmare only to find that they cannot move for a few seconds. But this was lasting far too long. Extended sleep paralysis. That almost made sense.

John smelled nice from this distance, as well. It was comforting. Like pine needles. It spoke of ruggedness but cosiness, like choosing your own Christmas tree. He was glad he'd chosen John, and now was the time he needed him, no matter if, in a way, he'd triggered the need for this in the first place.

It only just occurred to Sherlock that part of the reason for John's panic might be that he lost people he was close to in Afghanistan, and was scared of losing Sherlock too.

The therapist finally spoke. "If you like, I can call an ambulance and we can take him to hospital."

Yes. No. I don't know. That would be public. But possibly helpful. EEG's. How long would he remain in this state? What if he couldn't get out?

John's crying fell on his face. No, that wasn't John. _He_ was crying. Was he really that distraught? Yes.

"Please, John."

What good were his uncontrolled cries? They didn't know he was conscious. For all they knew, he was sleep-talking.

"Okay, if you think it'll help him then that's what I want. I need to call his brother, Mycroft. Could you give me a moment?" He looked at the door, wanting the therapist to leave, as he walked out of the room, John started wondering if he _should_ tell Mycroft. He'd be so worried, but would he blame John? No, that's not the important thing right now, he thought. So he began to dial Mycroft's number.

John slowly and shakily pulled his phone out of his pocket. _Click- Menu_. _Click- Phone-book_. _Scroll down- Mycroft- Click- Call._

The phone rang for about three rings of the tone- Mycroft always picked up because John didn't call unless it was of paramount importance. Before Mycroft could even finish the word _hello,_ John had jumped into conversation.

"Your brother is going to hospital, because last night he had emotional trauma, woke up not being able to remember it, booked a session with a Hypnotherapist and now he's like paralyzed and I'm worried. You need to come to the hospital at once, and you need to help me decide what is best for him." John rambled breathlessly down the phone.

Having been sat at his desk intent on working for at least a good few hours without interruption, Mycroft let out a soft sigh as his mobile phone sounded from it's place in his jacket pocket. Leaning back in his seat, he pulled the device from his pocket and raised a brow in curiosity when he saw the name on the screen. Along with a slight hint of dread. John only ever called him in emergencies, after all.

Pressing the small button, he held the phone to his ear, barely getting the word "hello" out before he was promptly cut off by a rather panic-ridden John. Lips pursed into a thin line he listened closely, taking it all in.

A slight shaky breath escaped but otherwise Mycroft kept his cool, speaking calmly before ending the call. "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Stay with him."

Pushing himself up from his chair Mycroft placed the phone back in his pocket and headed for the door, calling out for Anthea to prepare the car.

Oh, God. Mycroft. The last time he saw his brother, he'd been completely, utterly drunk. John didn't know Mycroft had come over. He'd spilled his heart to his brother. If all John says is that there'd been an incident and that Sherlock was now in hospital, what would Mycroft think? The logical conclusion would be that he'd drank himself into oblivion. (Then again, whispered a part of his mind, who's to say that didn't contribute?)

Funny. Normally in this physical position, he'd be falling asleep. But not now, not when he was struggling to get even the tiniest bit of control.

When John lifted one hand away to dial Mycroft's number, it left part of Sherlock unsupported. Which hurt.

"John."

Well, at least he wasn't crying for help any more, like a useless lump.

John put his phone back in his pocket. He wondered if somehow _he _would get the blame for this.

After John had put the phone down, he went back to holding Sherlock's head. He stroked his hair, as he always did, trying to comfort him. He was terrified, he didn't want to lose Sherlock, not him. A heavy, hot, desperate tear fell from his eye, as he looked down on Sherlock's limp body. "Please pull through this, I know it's difficult, but I believe in you." He placed a kiss on the top of his nose and prayed for a response.

Mycroft's car was waiting outside as requested, with Anthea standing next to the door. Insisting he go alone, Mycroft dismissed her and pulled the door open, sitting down in the leather seat before closing it behind him as he instructed the driver to take him to the hospital, and fast. Assuming John had already called an ambulance and had called while they were waiting, he would be able to meet him as they arrived.

True to his word, it took no longer than twenty minutes for him to get there. Waiting outside the emergency room doors, Mycroft watched as various ambulance's came and went, his worry steadily increasing despite his calm exterior. He knew leaving Sherlock the last time he had visited was a bad idea. He'd trusted John to take care of him but—

No. He shook his head at the thought. Now was not the time to put blame on anyone. John cared for Sherlock just as much as he did, he was certain. Mycroft flexed his right hand before reaching for his phone once more, growing more tense. While he wasn't one for texting, he had to let John know he was waiting; almost a plea for them to hurry up so he could know for certain what exactly had happened. Fingers tapping the buttons quickly, he hit the send button and continued his wait.

_**I'm here. -MH**_

The wheels of his mind were spinning. He hurt on John's behalf. He'd seen their grandmother in a similar spiral not long before her death, feeble of body, and empty of mind, crying out involuntarily in the night. Now he couldn't help but wonder if she had been as vividly conscious as he was.

_Please, _he begged himself, _please don't let me go the way she did._

His left index finger twitched slightly. Not entirely a conscious movement, but something at all was a help. The damage may not be permanent.

"My."

He'd blurted out the pet name for his older brother. He didn't know why. Perhaps a part of him was having flashbacks to those times he'd spent in hospital, Mycroft by his side, helping him fight his cocaine addiction. (Could that be the answer now? A stimulant?) The desperate corners of his mind were grabbing everything they could think of as his eyes stared into John's tortured face. He hated and feared this weakness. This was everything he didn't want.

John heads snapped down to Sherlock. "My." he'd said.  
>"My, what?" John frowned. He thought for a moment. What things did Sherlock own that helped him? His violin? His skull? The best thing to do would be to ask his brother. He texted him.<p>

toMycroft Holmes

Mycroft, Sherlock said 'my'. What does he want? I can't think of what he'd need in a state of paralysis.- JW

FromJohn Watson

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and looked into Sherlock's eyes. He saw the fear, dancing in them.  
>"Don't be scared. You're the most clever and frankly emotionless person I know. Fear shouldn't be needed, think about all the times you cancel out emotions. You can comfort yourself inside your head, come on, try. I know you can't move, but you can make yourself feel mentally safe." Saying the words felt like John was hitting him in the face, but he knew they had to be said.<p>

That was exactly what Sherlock needed to hear. Normally, this would be the point where he would close his eyes and take a deep breath, but seeing as how he couldn't, he just did it mentally. It helped calm him slightly. John was right. Fear was pointless. The doctors in the hospital were going to figure out what had gone wrong and how to fix it. All he had to do was wait.

The doors swung open and two men with a stretcher came in. The first one shone a light into his eyes-checking pupil response. The man looked puzzled.

"Well, that's alright," he'd said. Normal pupils. Good. They lifted Sherlock onto the stretcher, and carried him out the door. But right now, Sherlock was still trying to work out how it could have-

Oh. Stupid. The sleeping pills were designed to counteract any sleepwalking tendencies. Now because of the hypnotism, his body missed the signal to wake back up. His body was essentially still asleep. They got into the lift, John barely managing to enter as the doors closed.

"John. My."

No more than one syllable at once? Still, words were words, even if involuntary. His body had decided that calling for the two people closest to him was necessary, even if his mind hadn't given it permission.

John still couldn't figure out what he meant by 'my' but nonetheless, he sat by his side holding his hand the whole time. Mycroft popped in and out that evening, bringing him grapes and juice, though Sherlock wouldn't eat them.

"I think, Sherlock, you're going to be okay." John smiled at him. "So no worries, although you're still scaring me a little." He chuckled.

It had been around two hours and no luck, still one syllable words, mumbling and no movement, but the doctors said it would be tomorrow before any improvement would happen. John was determined to stay there all night, just in case he moved.

Grapes and juice? He wasn't a child. He could still think. It was obvious that the nurse, for example, was having a lesbian affair with her husband's sister. Even if all Sherlock could do was stare at the ceiling, he could take in notes on what was going on. He still blinked, so that was no problem. The involuntary actions were fine. He just had trouble with the voluntary ones.

He needed to get out his message. Sleep paralysis in waking. That was his problem. But he couldn't say it. He'd read that rarely sleep paralysis could last for hours. _Well,_ Sherlock thought, _I never have been one to do things in half-measures._

_Oh, that's new._ He began to see a light from over near John, blindingly bright, like studio lights. Hallucinations were one of the common symptoms of sleep paralysis.

"Light."

"What about it?" John said, quite shocked that Sherlock had spoke at all. He put down the book he had been reading-(he'd picked up Sherlock's relationship book up that morning, and thought it'd be quite amusing to read. He was indeed correct about that.) and strolled over to the bed. He knelt up beside it, stroking Sherlock's forehead again, to comfort him in case it was distressing him.

"I just thought of something, you know. Do you think a stimulant would help?" He remembered that Sherlock wouldn't reply, so he shook his head. "Probably a silly idea, but I might put it to Mycroft and the doctors. I just want you to be okay, dear. I love you and I hate to see you like this." He sighed. He pulled his chair close to the bed and slumped into it. "Why couldn't this of happened to me? I mean, then you'd be able to sort it out, you know the answer to everything." Then john chuckled. "Well, 'cept the Solar System." He mocked.

_Yes! John, yes! That might be it! Please. Just don't bring up the solar system again._

If he could, he would have glared at John for his little teasing barb. But he couldn't, so he'd just have to bring that up later.

"My."

Would he quit calling for Mycroft already? It was embarrassing enough to have both your boyfriend and your brother present, treating you like an invalid, but to be calling for your brother with a name you haven't used since you were seven was just plain irritating!

What did his body want Mycroft for, anyway?

"John. Light. Air."

This was getting frustrating.

"I'm going to assume you want me to draw the blinds and open the window or something. Plus, Mycroft mentioned that was your little pet name for him, aw." He did as he said he would, and returned to his chair. "I'll text Mycroft, now. You know after this whole ordeal, I won't object to you playing the violin at 3am." He murmured, in a sad way.

He went on to text Mycroft.  
>ToMycroft Holmes<p>

Sherlock is asking for you, 'My'. (I may start calling you My My, when you get annoying.) -JW

FromJohn Watson

John's inflection was touching. Sherlock could tell that John was basically trying to convince himself that Sherlock would be alright. Unfortunately, he couldn't tell John that he didn't want more light, he was hallucinating a great whopping one all around John, like an aura. At least he got the air bit right-he found himself in a sort of panic attack. His body was panicking, even though his mind had calmed somewhat. How could John not have noticed that his pulse had gone up?

The light in his hallucinations had grown as well, and it was nearly painful. Stupid optic nerve!

_When that nurse does show up_, he thought, _John had better remember to inquire about the stimulants._

At around three o'clock, the nurse popped her head around the door. "Is he sleeping yet, Doctor Watson?" He noticed that since the last time she'd been in the room, she'd unbuttoned her shirt two buttons lower, showing a horrific amount of breast. She'd put on much more make-up, and had her hair pinned up.  
>John coughed. "'Fraid not, I did have a theory, though. Have you considered using a stimulant to help him regain normal and functioning consciousness?"<br>The nurse batted her eyelids and giggled. "Oh, a stimulant? Hehe, smart idea." John didn't care for her much, she wasn't attractive, not comparable to Sherlock. Her eyes were blue, her hair was blonde- aesthetically, she was generic. John frowned slightly. "Just an idea, anyway." And he went back to reading his book, trying his best to look like he'd forgotten she was there.  
>"I'll go and put your suggestion with Doctor Hussey, then." She snarled, obviously she had noticed Johns disinterest. With that, she stomped out of the room, muttering as she went.<p>

"Bloody hell." John fumed. "She's so unprofessional, you'd think she'd have her patient's health at heart. But instead, she's dressing like a harlet and using medical terms as inuendo." John stuck his face back into his book, and tried to amuse himself.

Involuntarily, Sherlock burst into a roar of laughter that didn't end for at least five minutes. It was at that point that Doctor Hussey entered.

"Has he shown any signs of attention- or drug-seeking behaviours in the past?" He frowned at Sherlock, who was only just stopping laughing. (Sherlock, for his part, didn't find it _that_ funny. Slightly amusing, perhaps, but not enough to trigger a laugh attack)

Granted, that doctor was right, his spontaneous laughing fit probably did make it seem like he was faking it for attention or drugs. The obvious easy way would be to inflict some sort of pain, but, again, no way to get the idea out. All that came out instead was "Tired."

"If I'm honest, doctor, I think if he were crying out for drugs, he could've got it on his own. I know that he hates people mollycoddling him, so no, he wouldn't. I think we should try it. I trust this man, with my life. He wouldn't do something like that to me." The doctor nodded, and sauntered out, presumably to get drugs.

John frowned at Sherlock.  
>"Why were you laughing? It wasn't funny, she was dressed like, for use of a better word, a prostitute, who tends to those with a nurse fetish." John could feel himself raging, so he stopped. Sherlock was laughing again, but he didn't see why. Sherlock would usually dismiss what John said about flirtatious women.<p>

Yet again, John was right. Why the blazes was he laughing? Was it just a sudden release of pent-up emotion? He hadn't found the situation particularly funny, to be honest, yet for some strange reason, his body had decided a paroxysm of laughter was an appropriate response.

Oh, well, the associated endorphins helped make him feel a bit better. Now, instead of panic, he was just plain bored.

The doctor arrived with an additional bag for the IV and explained that it was a stimulant and how it would probably help get the neurochemical messages to actually work since Sherlock's EEG was, aside from conscious motor control, fine.

"John. Tired."

"Why don't you try to sleep?" John cooed. "Or do you want to take this right away?" He stroked Sherlock's hand, waiting for a response.

_Of course I want to take it now! I've tried to sleep! My body thinks it's already asleep! It needs to wake up! For God's sakes, stop being so thick!_

Of course, he couldn't say anything. Now he was starting to wonder if he often talked in his sleep. He knew he had as a child, but he'd thought he'd stopped, and John had never mentioned it before.

_Hurry up already,_ his mind snapped. He knew they couldn't hear him, but he was still frustrated.

"Closer."

John walked up closer to the bed. "Hm, what?" He asked, thickly. "Doctor, I think we should give it him now."

As Sherlock felt the drip into his veins, a wave of nostalgia came over him, as he remembered the last time he'd had cocaine. Which had nearly killed him, but it had felt good.

This, too, was a stimulant. And it was like something burst. Five minutes of silence and the last hurtle was over. He sighed.

"Thank you." He smiled weakly (he was still recovering) and scratched his nose. "I probably ought to have mentioned that I'd taken half of one of your sleeping pills before we arrived at the hypnotherapist."

"Ugh. So you basically had an allergic reaction to them. Goddamn it, Sherlock." Even though he was angry at him, he still stayed in the chair next to him. "I'm glad you're better." And he kissed him on the end of his nose, and smiled warmly. "I was scared.." He trailed off. "I thought I'd lose you.."

"Nonsense, you'll never lose me." _At least not in such a mundane fashion_, he didn't continue. He put his hand on John's head and gently mussed his hair. What he didn't say was how utterly frightened he'd been by the whole experience. "And it's a bit more complicated than a simple allergic reaction, but I'm fairly certain that as a medical man, you knew that. And I apologize for what you must have gone through yesterday." He smiled warmly. "I wasn't myself."

This was one of the few times Sherlock showed that he cared about John.  
>"Listen," John sighed, "I was going to talk to you about this before you got ill. It's quite difficult for me to say.. Uh, right. I was confused by you saying you're not in love with me, because like, i thought when you had sex with me, that was you saying that you were giving yourself to me.. silly, i know. But yeah, I'm confused. I just wonder if you want this relationship. In no way am I breaking up with you, because I lo- care about you. I just wonder if you feel anything romantic at all toward me."<br>He felt so guilty for bringing this up whilst Sherlock was still ill. "I mean, we haven't even kissed properly since we slept together…" He sighed and looked at his shoes, feeling like Sherlock was about to tell him to get out.

The suddenness of John's question somewhat shocked Sherlock. "John...I _was_ giving myself to you. Knowing you has been the closest I'll probably ever feel to love. Sexuality and romance are confusing things. Particularly for me. My brain is wired differently. It's not as simple for me as it seems for everyone else. I have never known romantic love and thus don't know what it's like. I can't answer your question. That inability to understand myself is deeply troubling."

Sherlock frowned. "I began our relationship primarily as an experiment into my own sexuality. You were the only person I trust with it. You still are. The concept of romance is so frequently tied in with sex that I suppose it could not be helped that the one followed the other. There's no one I'd trust more than you to help me explore those feelings. I don't know if that means I have a romantic attachment. I have enjoyed our intimacy, more than I'd expected I would, and I want you to know that."

He looked away. "But what I said under hypnotism is the truth. I love you, I'm not in love with you. I would rather die than have you do so, but..." he trailed off, unable to find the correct words. "There are three centres of thought, metaphorically speaking. The brain, the heart, and the reproductive organs. When we were at Lauriston Gardens, I realized that you appealed to my brain. When we began this experiment, you appealed to my reproductive organs. I'm just not sure about my heart. I'm still not sure I have one. Metaphorically."

"You do, even Moriarty said. And come on, he's not going to lie." John sighed. "I'm going to get a coffee, I'll get you one, and we'll talk about this when I come back." He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and then walked out of the room, in a terrible mood.

Sherlock slumped back. He'd been honest. Of course he was, he couldn't be anything else without extreme difficulty. But he watched John leave the room, claiming that coffee was his goal, and realized how much the truth must have hurt him. Sherlock hadn't wanted that. But at the same time, it had felt like detoxing to tell the truth. And if they were going to continue this whatever-it-had-become, it wouldn't do to have any dishonesty between them. Dishonesty ruins more lives than honesty. Perhaps it was his mistake for blindly hoping that John could detach himself in the same way that Sherlock did. Not everyone had that ability. Talking of which, agitation wouldn't do any good at the moment, he noted as his pulse rose.

John stormed out. What was the real point in this? _The man will never love you, not really_, _you're not good enough, he deserves better. _His mind was screaming things at him, making him feel so low.  
>He got to the shop, and stopped to get out his wallet.<br>"Fucking fine then, Fran. You wanna be cold, I'll be cold. Then maybe you'll notice everything I did for you." A man was screaming in the face of his much younger girlfriend, who was red in the face from crying. _That's an idea, John._

He bought his coffee, and went back to the room, and slumped in the chair, acting as if Sherlock didn't exist, and rolling his eyes like he had nowhere better to be.

Sherlock was startled by John's new posture. It was screaming that he was only here because he had to be, not because he wanted to be. It felt like betrayal. Not ten minutes ago, John had been practically stuck to him, and now he just sat there like he'd rather be anywhere but there in the hospital room with him. He'd even forgotten the coffee he said he was going to get Sherlock (not that he really wanted coffee, but it was the principle of the thing.) Maybe John was trying his best at emotional detachment, but it didn't suit him. Sherlock was more used to John being his heart, not a separate brain. And besides that, instead of coming off as neutral, there were waves of "**** you" coming off. Sherlock felt (and heard) his pulse rising again.

"I'm sorry, do you have somewhere you'd rather be?"

"I might as well stay here, Mycroft wants to talk to me about something, also he's bringing you food in, and I have to make sure you eat it." He snarled from behind his book. He felt horrific. He didn't like acting this way one little bit, but if it was going to get him his own way, he was going to do it. It had always worked with Harry when they were children.

He peered up, and Sherlock looked like somebody had just smashed his violin into pieces. "What's wrong with you?" John queried, acting as if he didn't think his behavior was strange. He raised an eyebrow, Sherlock usually told him what he wanted when he did that. _For gods sake. John. You're acting like him to get what you want, stop it. _His brain could have told him anything, but the power he had was too strong to stop. He wanted his own way, and like the spoilt child he had been at the age of 10, he was going to get it.

"I understand what you're trying to do. You're trying to give me a taste of my own medicine as it were. Stop it. It doesn't suit you." Sherlock's voice was even more icy than usual. "If you don't want to be here, fine. Leave. I'll eat my food like a good little boy and take my medicines and not even bother that my only friend is acting being, to use the vulgar colloquialism, a dick." He really hated to use such language, but it was the only way to express it at the moment. "I'll even pretend not to mind if you choose to leave Baker Street, since it's obvious that, at present, you want nothing whatsoever to do with me." He was venomous now, extremely upset that John's attitude had changed. It was like twisting an already-fragile piece of metal. Eventually it would snap. "Go on. Leave, if that's what you want. Go back to your surgeries, your nightmares of combat, and your empty, meaningless, pointless existence, and consider this experiment concluded."

John shrugged, trying to show that he didn't care, although he felt like he'd been shot all over again. "I thought you would have wanted me this way. This is what you're like. You show no thought, no kindness, no intimacy, and the only compassion you show isn't toward me, it's toward your work. The way you feel right now, is how I feel every single day. You don't care about me, you'd rather be looking at a corpse than me, and you know what? I care about you so much I don't complain. I fell in love with you. Imagine it, go on. Also, I knew I was nothing more than an experiment to you, that's all I ever was. I should have known that I'd never be good enough for the worlds smartest man."  
>He buried his head into his hands and began to sob loudly. He'd been such an idiot to think Sherlock would want him at all, no matter his behavior.<p>

The sudden change again surprised the detective. "John, if you need to say something, just say it. It's torture to watch you do this to yourself." His head was in a whirl, trying to figure out exactly what John wanted. "You think you're not good enough for me. If you aren't, then no one is. You're the closest I've ever found. It isn't a conscious decision on my part to be distant or cold to you. It's not the way my brain works. I can't help it. Those centres of my brain are not active. In the eyes of the medical community, my brain is broken. To my knowledge, I physically cannot love or most other emotions, but love is the one in which I am most malfunctioning. I've never been terribly troubled before as it helps me focus on my work. And now you're going from tender to distant to sobbing and I have absolutely no idea how to react." And then he realized exactly what John had said. "You...fell in love...with me?" He was stunned into silence, and part of him wanted to return that affection, but, as he'd just explained, he couldn't. That hurt.

John stood up. "I'm going to leave, because that's what you want." He went to turn away but changed his mind. "If there is any part of you that wants me, then you'll stop me. But I doubt there is, so I'll get my shit out of Baker Street and you'll never hear from me again." He could feel a heavy, hot tear splash from his eye onto the floor. "I'm sorry I inconvenienced you." He whispered, shakily.

"I..."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. Vivid memories of his mother walking out on his father flooded back into his mind. He'd only been eight, and yes, she'd come back after six months, but it still haunted him. He'd never told anyone about it-Mycroft had been there, so he'd known-so John couldn't have possibly known. His face scrunched up in emotional pain and his pulse began to fluctuate wildly. In his head, he was that child, watching out of the window as his mother got into a cab and left. That experience was the reason he'd promised himself he'd never love again. Now he couldn't speak, even though he wanted to scream. He was shaking, and all that came out was a barely-audible squeak.

John looked at Sherlock's face, he was cowering as if he'd just been hit in the face. He made a small, scared squeak, like he didn't know what to say.  
>John really couldn't take it anymore. He walked over to his and threw his arms around him. "I won't leave, if you don't want me to." He whispered.<p>

"John, you've done something to me," was the only thing he could think of to say as he reciprocated the hug. "I can't explain. I'd go insane if something happened. To you. Literally quite mad. I don't know why you suddenly feel the need to play with what little emotions I have. Maybe it's your version of an experiment. I understand that." He felt so weak, and it made no sense. "Good God, John. I'm rubbing off on you and you on me. What are we becoming?"

"Normal, probably." John laughed. "Well, as normal as we can get, normal people do things like this. I don't want to hurt you." He said, sadly looking into his eyes. "I do care about you, really, I do." He cupped his face and smiled. "As soon as you're out of here, I'll call Lestrade and see if he has anything interesting, that'll cheer you up.. Unless, you want to help me decorate the flat for Christmas?" He said, hopefully.

Sherlock gave a quick weak chuckle at the image of such a domestic thing as putting up Christmas decorations. "Normal people have arguments wherein they expose previously-buried emotional distress? Perhaps it's not as dull as I'd thought." He was still trying to figure out what had just happened. He put his head back down on the pillow. "I'm not used to being confused," he muttered, more to himself than John. "Maybe we can put those large Christmas lightbulbs in Johnston's eye sockets," he said with a small smile.

"Please don't tell me that's the name of your skull." John giggled. "Okay then, if it pleases you." He went to move off the bed but Sherlock seemed to be holding onto his shirt. "Do you want me to go and get you anything to eat? You must be hungry, don't fib and say you aren't." He cooed. He sprawled next to Sherlock, as there was more than enough room next to his frail body. He rested his head onto his shoulder, trying to get an answer out of him, patronizingly.

Sherlock hadn't realized he was holding John's shirt. "I am actually rather peckish, now you come to mention it. But last time you said you'd get me something, not only did you neglect the coffee, you came back cross." He smiled. "Not sure I trust you to leave again. I might get stuck with your evil twin, and then where would we be?" _I'm so tired, even with these stimulants. I just need to rest._

"Mm. We should wait for Mycroft to bring you something then. I think you need to sleep." He wrapped his arms around his fragile torso. "I'm tired too," He yawned. "I've been up all night, too." He snuggled into Sherlock and fell asleep rather quickly.

Sherlock woke half an hour later to pins and needles in his arm, and not just the literal sort. "John," he said softly. "John, my arm's fallen asleep and it's the one with the medication in." He winced. "Besides, can't you give your medical word that I'm suitable for discharge? The beds at home are far more comfortable. Besides, if it's stimulants I need still, there are plenty back at the flat."

John woke up, mid snore. "Oh, i'm sorry. Fine then, but you can't take any sleeping pills."  
>He looked up at the table, there was a pack of grapes, a carton of apple juice, a sandwich and a note.<br>"Mycroft's been here." John groaned. He sat up and pulled the note from the table.

_Dear John._

_Please make sure Sherly eats, I'm dreadfully worried about him. Mummy always used to make him eat grapes when he was ill. She sends her love._

_-Mycroft Holmes._

_P.s- If you call me 'MyMy' you shall live to regret it._

"He called you Sherly." John mocked. "Eat these whilst I go and discharge you." He passed him the grapes, and kissed him lightly.

Sherlock's nose twitched. Sherly. He hated that name and Mycroft knew it. He held the grapes for a few moments before deciding to give in and eat them. As always, he carefully applied pressure to the skin of the grape until it burst, then he hollowed out the peel. He always savoured any experience, no matter how trivial. Senses are important. The minutes ticked by, the grapes eaten, the juice scowled at, and the sandwich devoured. He'd been hungrier than he thought he was. Then he noticed he'd done something a bit silly-he'd actually saved a grape for John. What were they, six? He smirked and decided to leave it. Maybe John would appreciate the unconscious gesture.

John shook doctor Hussey's hand and thanked him for his help, right after he'd signed the discharge form. He strolled back into Sherlock's room.  
>"We can go now, they said you seem much better. I'll have to take that IV out though." He gently pulled it out and took it down from the stand. "Do you think you're strong enough to walk?" He worried. "You didn't drink your juice. But well done for eating! I'm going to eat this grape because you clearly have something against it." He joked, sitting down on the bed, popping it into his mouth.<p>

"I actually saved it for you," Sherlock said, feeling like a kindergartener. "Yes, I can walk. I think my brain has reset itself now." He slowly stood up, not actually sure that he was back to normal. "And don't worry, I have no intention of taking any more of your sleeping pills, drinking myself unconscious, or going under hypnotism for a very long time, and certainly won't be mixing them." He smiled, and, while he was still slightly wobbly, he managed not to show it too badly. "Though I must admit, I am still confused as to where we stand."

"Me too.." John smiled in a sad sort of way. "The question is, where do you want us to stand?" He asked as they walked slowly down the corridor. He felt apprehensive about the answer he'd get, he gnawed on his lip until they got to the main entrance.

The question that Sherlock didn't trust himself to answer. After all, it was more than just Sherlock that had been affected by the experiment, and John was, there was no other word for it, clingy. Which made sense owing to the fact that he probably lost people he cared about on the battlefield and didn't want to lose any more. John had fragile emotions. John needed to know he cared. But he couldn't lie. He shouldn't. So he chose words to help him.

"This is my favourite of all experiments I've ever undertaken. I don't know if we can give our relationship a name. I don't know if we even ought to try. I would die to save you and I know you would do the same for me. That might be the closest I can feel to love. I don't want to stop this. I feel...more complete as a person when you're there as my heart. But I don't know if I feel romantic love. Sexual attraction, yes, what little I can feel of it. Intellectual attraction, certainly. But as I said, you have my heart. I don't. Poetically speaking, we are one organism. I the brain, you the heart. We'd be broken without one another. I'd rather be whole. But if, at any point, I'm hurting you and don't know it, let me know."

He had grabbed John's fingers. It was something he hadn't really done before. It was a gentle caress, like someone who had never in their life held hands (which was more or less true), their fingers gently brushing. He needed to know that John understood.

John had to turn and look at him to make sure he hadn't just imagined it. He held Sherlock's hand when it brushed over his. He slowly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm more than happy with that." He smiled.

"Good," Sherlock nodded. When John pulled away, he felt something he hadn't expected. A tear. Just one solitary tear of relief. He sighed. Things were going to be alright.


	2. Horror

Sherlock was shaking. He hadn't seen or heard from John in nearly a week. He was frightened that something may have happened. One moment, he was saying he was going out for milk and beans and then he just vanished.

Obviously, he'd reported him missing and done everything he could. But somehow, he couldn't find the moment at which John had vanished from the London streets. The security cameras tracked him until the store, where he had done his shopping, but after he left, there was no trace.

The first night, Sherlock didn't worry too much—it was fine if something had come up and he needed to go away for a day.

The second night he'd had a nightmare. John, in this dream, had been killed, his throat slit and stuffed with newspapers.

He hadn't slept since, keeping himself awake with nicotine and worry, texting John's phone every hour on the hour.

Statistics tried to comfort him. They weren't working. He hadn't told anyone but Lestrade and Mycroft about John's disappearance, but before long, Mrs. Hudson had gotten worried, too. "He's a grown man, Sherlock," she'd said. Which was true. But there was a deep ache in Sherlock's stomach, knowing that something may have happened to him.

Maybe Moriarty got him.

Maybe he'd been killed in a hit-and-run.

Maybe he was shot defending someone.

Maybe he was in a hospital somewhere, neither himself nor anyone else having any idea who he was.

Then the sleep-deprived, nicotine- and panic-fuelled paranoia kicked in.

Maybe he'd left Sherlock.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, curled up, and started rocking back and forth.

"No. It can't happen like this." Memories of his mother leaving flooded back into his mind. Could it be that John abandoned him, too, just as Sherlock was starting to (re)discover deep emotional connections? Their recent semi-row might have done it. Sherlock really had no idea. But the thought terrified him. He was alone, cold and afraid.

It'd been a regular morning. John woke up next to Sherlock, as usual, he got up and ready, had breakfast, and then went to get some shopping.  
>What happened next was a blur.<br>He was crossing the road when a car hit him full on. He got up, fine. Four men grabbed him, dragging him into the back of the car.  
>He couldn't see anything, and it was silent.<br>He was pulled out roughly by what felt like the same men, and dropped onto the floor.  
>"So nice to see you again, Johnnyboy." <em>No, not again, for gods sake. <em>"I trust you had a nice journey." The voice laughed. He heard footsteps coming toward him, one hand grabbed onto his crotch. "Hmmm, I wonder what little games I can play with you this time?" John tensed. Last time this had happened, he was violated in every sense of the word. This was something he'd never shared with anyone.  
>He was dragged across the gravel floor, into a building. A small room, he guessed, going by the sound of the echoed noises.<br>"Thanks boys! I'll see you later." The voice laughed. Then, everything went quiet. John's blindfold was pulled off, and he looked up to see Moriarty, again.  
>"Why the fuck are you doing this?" John screamed.<br>"Because it's _such_ fun." He giggled. "Loosen up, my pet. It's okay. I'll only do to you what _he _did to you." John squirmed, he didn't like the sound of this one bit.  
>"No, this isn't fair. This is violation. I have my rights." He demanded, almost crying with anger.<br>"And I have my needs, darling."  
>John felt his stomach lurch. He felt nothing but loathing hate for Jim Moriarty.<p>

The torture went on for what felt like ten years. When he was left alone, he could feel the bite marks on his back pulsating with blood. This had happened last time. Johns whole body was torn to shreds, after hours of beatings, sexual acts and near death moments, he was sure he'd never get out.

"Alright, Johnny. I brought my favorite pet some food." Jim strolled in again, holding a large plate.  
>"No. I'm not eating. Maybe if I die, then you'll stop."<br>Jim giggled. "I like me a stiff. It must seem like but a moment of pleasure for you."  
>"No. Not at all."<br>"I want you to call dear Sherlock."  
>"Good."<br>A phone was pressed to his ear.  
>Sherlock picked up, and when he heard his voice; his favorite sound, he couldn't stop crying.<br>"Sherlock, help me. Please help me. He's got me again, I'd never walk away from you like that, believe me, please, I love-"  
>"No, no, nooooooooooooo, sweetie." Moriarty sang as he pulled the phone away. "We shan't be saying goodbyes."<p>

Moriarty had John, and he was crying. Moriarty was playing a game with him. He'd say he'd burn the heart out of him. John was his heart. His only heart. And going by the tone of his voice, there was more than just kidnapping going on. Sherlock felt like swearing, felt like killing, felt like ripping Moriarty limb from limb with his bare hands. But he couldn't. He threw his phone with a strangled scream and it crashed into John's vase, shattering it.

Not for the first time that month, he wanted to rip out the emotional centres of the brain. If he had never cared, this wouldn't have happened. If he had just lived life on logic alone, John wouldn't be in danger now.

He took a deep breath. He could figure this out. He had to. There was a reason Moriarty had permitted the phone call-permission was obvious or John would have spoken differently. Sherlock rubbed his face. There had to be something. Anything. One little sound in the background, one little clue, one little giveaway that could tell him where they were.

Moriarty was too smart to permit the call being traced, so he couldn't go to Lestrade. No point. Instead, he picked up the phone with its newly chipped corner and sent a text to John's phone.

What do you want?  
>SH<p>

He was too agitated to sit. He paced the living room, waiting for an answer, forcing himself to breathe normally, running through what John had said on the phone and any sound there may have been in the background.

He took comfort in only one thing. John was alive. For now.

John wanted nothing more than to be at home with Sherlock. "For god's sake. Why do you have to play this game?" Moriarty was looking at his phone, smirking. "LISTEN TO ME." John roared.  
>"Calm down, sexy. It was just your companion texting me asking for a price. I think he's finally got my little metaphorical riddle, about burning the heart out of him. I mean, it <em>will<em> take a while for me to break your spirit, John, but it is possible. I've done it to stronger men than you." He ran his finger across Johns throat as he spoke, grinning.  
>"Why would I be his heart?" John asked, thickly. His brain went blank.<br>"Don't be dim. You're the only person who he close to loving. Killing you will kill him, and that's all I want. But as I said, I don't like to get my hands dirty."  
>Jim started fiddling with John's cuffs. "Aaah, the handcuffs. Always one of my favorite gadgets. Along with the riding crop, and I know that's one of your favorites." Before John could register what had just been said, a loud whack of air came past his ear, right onto his cheek, causing excruciating pain. It was bleeding everywhere.<br>"Now, sexy. I want you to tell Sherlock what my price is! Let's call him again, shall we?"  
>"What is your price?"<br>"Let's see. I've rather taken a fancy to his brother, I'd like to have my way with him."  
>"No. Just kill me."<br>"Call him."

The phone was shoved to his ear again. Sherlock picked up.  
>"Sherlock, his price is Mycroft. Don't do it, just leave me here, I don't expect you to betray your brother because-" The line cut dead.<p>

_No_, thought Sherlock. _ It isn't Mycroft he's after. He wants to see me suffer. That's what this is about. Me._

Moriarty was going after the only two people Sherlock cared about. He was good. He knew exactly what buttons to push and in what order. No doubt this was an experiment. Seeing exactly what mattered more to Sherlock-John or Mycroft? His boyfriend or his brother? Just a piece in a game. Right now, Sherlock didn't care.

He texted Mycroft:

Threatening messages from Moriarty. John kidnapped. You are ransom. Need calls traced.  
>SH<p>

People said "don't do it" all the time. They never really meant it. They just didn't want you to feel guilty if you couldn't save them.

But on the whole, John was right. If Moriarty got to Mycroft, wars would start. Not could, would. Mycroft was the British Government's walking computer-unhackable. If Moriarty killed John, the worst that would happen was that a life would be lost. So Sherlock had to think of his choice as would he rather be responsible for World War Three which would kill millions, or the death of only one person. He hated himself for what he was about to do. But he had to do it. Slowly, he opened his phone and texted Moriarty:

No.  
>SH<p>

"He's chosen, darling!" Moriarty laughed in his face. "He'd rather see you dead." John felt his blood boil.  
>"You're a fucking idiot. He doesn't want either of us to die, he just knows which is best for everyone. For once in his life, he isn't thinking about himself."<br>Moriarty sat down, quietly for once, in a little plastic chair in the corner of the room.  
>"Why.. why would he do that?" He frowned. "He's a sociopath.." For once, Jim wasn't his know it all self. "He can't come and save you, mind. I could keep you here for the rest of your life and he wouldn't know you were alive." His voice started to get high pitched and annoying once more. "ANOTHER PHONE CALL, SEXY."<br>"Just stop it. I'd rather you killed me than tortured him. He's already chosen what's best for everyone, just get on with it."  
>"You'll read off this card." Moriarty was writing words down, "and you'll read it exactly, or I'll kill him."<p>

Once more, the phone was shoved to his ear. John read:

"Hello, sexy. It's me again. No, not your boyfriend- I'm just using John as my voice, even though I'm sure you miss my seductive tones. You've made your choice, and I've decided I'm going to keep John here, as a little.. shall we say, slave. He'll fulfill my every fantasy. I've explained that if he doesn't do what I ask, I come and kill his little boyfriend, you. So naturally, he'll do anything I want. I just can't wait for your reply!"  
>The line cut dead once more. John felt disgusting and dirty. He just wanted the floor to swallow him up right there, but he knew that Moriarty would have his way with him as many times as he pleased.<p>

You know those calls will not be easily traced. CCTV records will be checked. Stay calm, Sherlock. Everyone makes mistakes, even him. Just buy time.

MH

Sherlock was literally frozen. Moriarty'd reiterated his point by having John say the words. He knew how much it hurt. Sherlock was desperate to think he'd done the right thing by protecting the world over John. Part of him didn't believe it. His mind spun through various schemes, none of them pretty, and he kept having to remind himself that it was a mistake to theorize before one had all the facts.

It was hard to think, though, as he pictured John naked, bruised, cut, bleeding, and humiliated. But John was a soldier, and if anyone could take it, he could. Sherlock just hoped that he had the endurance and the strength of will.

"Forgive me, John," he whispered as he stared at John's cane in the corner. He hoped to all the deities he never believed in that John wouldn't need it permanently.

Which is why I'm asking you and not Lestrade.

SH

FROM THE BLOGS

Anonymous: You won't know me, but I'm just a guy who has your brother tied up. Sherlock has decided that John's life is worthless, and is about to let him die.-M

Harry: What the fuck? Who is this? How do you know Sherlock and John?

Harry: Somebody had better tell me that that was some kind of sick joke, because now I'm going out of my mind.

Sherlock: I'm trying to work it out.

Harry: Sherlock, tell me what's going on. Please, if nothing else. Just let me know.

Sherlock: Moriarty has kidnapped John and is demanding my brother as ransom.

Harry: Moriarty? The man who started that crap at the swimming pool?

Sherlock: Yes. And the bombings.

Harry: Oh god. Okay. Well, erm, what do you think you're going to do? Because I really - look, I'm sorry, I can't do this.. I just don't know what I can do…

Sherlock: I don't know.

Mycroft: If I were to trade places with John, the chances of locating Moriarty and stopping him would be greatly increased, if anything.

Sherlock: And if he manages to torment you into divulging secrets, the chances of losing millions of lives would be much higher.

Mycroft: Implying he manages to do such a thing in the first place. If you want to find John, it would be the quickest way. I'm not telling you I will go unprepared Sherlock, I am telling you we should come up with a plan other than trying to trace calls, and sit worried.

Sherlock: You think I'm just sitting here? You think I'm just casually scanning my blog out of boredom? I am trying to come up with a plan! You've never seen him. You didn't see the look on John's face when he came back last time.

Sherlock: I'm trying my best to be civil.

Sherlock: You're probably right. I just can't think right any more.

Harry: I need to get out. It's no good me sitting here. I'll keep updating via my phone. Please, John, I hope you stay…safe, for now.

"You won't get Mycroft this way." John sighed.  
>"Oh, yes, I will." Jim laughed.<br>"I'm not important enough for that." he looked down at his shoes. Sherlock wouldn't risk his own siblings life for that of somebody who was unimportant to him.  
>"John, when I first got you, I thought you were just playing with fire. Sherlock is like an unattended bombfire, and you were just a little child who got too close. But it's more than that now… he's grown to, <em>love. <em>He won't let you die."  
>"Even so. I don't want Mycroft to die for me. We don't get on at the best of times but he means something to me even so. He is Sherlock's brother. I'd rather you just killed me."<br>"Wait there." Jim waved his hand and pulled out his phone. "We have another text."

Sherlock blinked as his vision wavered. Five days without sleep and now he needed to focus. Now was not the time to start hallucinating. He'd only just noticed a post on Harry's blog that said Moriarty was going to kill John.

If you kill him you will die  
>SH<p>

He'd sent the text before he could think. He meant it, though. If Moriarty killed John, then Sherlock would find the most painful death imaginable for his rival.

"Booooooring!" Jim sang.  
>"What is it, he's not giving Mycroft over is he?"<br>"No. It's none of your business. Time for a gag, I think."  
>Jim wrapped a piece of cloth through Johns teeth, tightly. He could barely move his tongue. He really just wanted to die.<p>

Jims phone kept buzzing, and he'd sing remarks, but John got told nothing. Occasionally, he'd move john into a position where he could do what he wanted. The rest of the time, he was lying on the floor, bound up. John stopped trying to speak out.  
>"What are you thinking, pet?" Jim asked, untying the gag.<br>John hadn't eaten for days now. He'd only managed to gulp down some water, and he was too scared to sleep. He was starting to pass out at inconvenient times. This was one of them.

Jim kicked him back to consciousness. "I said, what are you thinking." He spat angrily into his face.  
>"I'm thinking about when you'll leave your gun unattended so I can shoot myself in the head." John had never felt so helpless. He felt like he was drowning.<br>"I can sort that for you, but not now. In all due time. I think, I'll go and pay your little boyfriend a visit. SEBBY! Take care of John."  
>A huge bouncer looking man sat on the small plastic chair.<br>"I'm going to text Sherlock and let him know. Have a nice time. Sebastian won't go easy on you!"  
>Before John knew it, Sebastian had punched his lip open with a knuckleduster. He could feel his blood spilling all over his neck. The endless beatings were taking their toll on him. He slowly passed out, but the very last thing he heard was the click of a camera and Sebastian laughing. No doubt that it would be sent around to everyone as a joke.<p>

Sherlock's phone buzzed. Picture message. He saw it and it just made things worse. He was reminded of something from a film John had been watching-it's always the love interest that gets hurt, never the hero.

Damn it, Moriarty, just take me and be done with it. Since I'm what you're really after and we both know it.  
>SH<p>

He texted Mycroft, too.

Alteration of your plan might be about to commence.  
>SH<p>

The moments he waited for the reply were agonizing.

Somebody must have taken pity on John, as when he woke up, he was sitting upright, clothed. He heard bustle outside, and familiar voices. He couldn't see as his eyes were so swollen. He only guessed that Jim had his henchmen bringing some other defenseless victim in. He heard Jim's singsongy voice saying something about having what he wanted. He was picked up, and thrown into the back of some sort of vehicle. The next thing he heard was Sherlock's voice throwing abuse at whoever it was that had moved him. He felt more arms around him. It was very difficult for him to guess where he was, as he kept passing in and out of consciousness. All he could guess is that Mycroft had given himself in. The last thing he wanted.  
>"Sherlock," He breathed. "Please don't tell me he did it." But he was told to 'shh' and he passed back out.<p>

"Get your filthy paws off of him," Sherlock had snarled before his hands were bound.

"Ooh, touched a nerve," cooed Jim. "Of course, putting a bag over your head would be much too...common. So I'm rather afraid I'm going to have to have Sebastian knock you out."

Sherlock didn't even try to dodge Sebastian's fist as it hurtled toward his head. What was the point? John was safe. Mycroft was safe. It didn't matter what happened to him now. Everyone Sherlock cared about was safe. Then oblivion took him as the shock of fist on skull sent ripples through his brain.

Queued from Sherlock's blog:

I'm sorry, Mycroft. You know it was necessary.

If I don't make it back, don't tell Mother how I died. You know it would hurt her. I don't want to do to her what she did to us. Just tell her it was on a case and protecting someone I cared about as well as the nation.

John, if you're reading this, then I apologize to you as well. I never meant for you to be hurt. I didn't realize how much danger I've put you in. Don't stop living. Go on with your life.

I have to do this for everyone's sake. I can't think about it any more or I may not have the courage to surrender myself to Moriarty.

I hope this isn't goodbye, but if it is, don't throw your lives away out of a misguided revenge fantasy. Between the two of you-John and Mycroft-I know you will be able to find him and stop him.

Between John and Harry:

John: I've just got out of the hospital, I'm all stitched up, my lip looks horrendous.  
>I've just read Sherlock's blog, and I can't find Mycroft, so it looks like I'm going to have to find Moriarty myself.<br>Lestrade can't help either, because yet again, I can't get hold of him.  
><em>Harry, if you read this, <em>_**reply to it at once. **_

-JW.

Harry: John, thank god! What's going on? I've been out all night worried sick!

John: Moriarty decided it would be fun to capture me again. It was the worst experience of my life. _Even worse_ than the army.  
>The ransom for my release was Mycroft, but then Sherlock gave himself up. Read his blog.. I'm in 'shock' according to the hospital.<br>I don't know why I can't get hold of anyone, but me and you need to go and find him, I'm terrified that he's going to get himself killed…

Harry: Oh I know, Sherlock kept me a little updated whilst he was still around. I'll do anything at all to help you, John, I owe you. And we need to stick together. I was an ass to you before.

John: We're siblings. All is forgiven, all the time. Don't worry about it.  
>I've sent Moriarty a text from Sherlock's phone that was left at the flat, so all we need to do is wait. And try and work out where he is.<p>

Harry: I'm still going to help you, no matter what. Do you want me to stay here for now?

John: Yes. We have a text back, by the way.

John, to Mycroft:

John: It was incredibly noble for you to offer to save my life, Mycroft. I'm forever grateful. The only problem is, your brother has now given himself over. Any time you wish to contact me would help, I understand you're busy..

textto unknownI found Sherlock's phone, and I'm assuming by the texts that this is Moriarty. Just so you know, I'm coming to find Sherlock. And when I find you, I am personally going to kill you.-John Watson. FromSherlock Holmes

Aww, so touchingly loyal. Although, it's not really a question of you finding me, is it? It's a question of how badly do you want your boyfriend traumatised. -M

"He's so sweet," Moriarty said to Sherlock as he regained consciousness. Instantly, Sherlock was trying to look for any clues as to their location. He couldn't. He felt weak and soon realized why. He'd lost far too much blood than was healthy.

"I can see why you like having him around. You need him to be your unconditional fan."

Sherlock shivered. It was cold in here and he was wearing very little; only his underwear and the handcuffs with which both his hands and feet were bound. He was lightheaded and very sick to his stomach.

"This…I'm disappointed. This sort of thing…far below your…capabilities." He had a hard time saying what he was thinking, but he was fairly sure he'd gotten his message out. It was true. If Moriarty had resorted to petty kidnappings, he'd gone down in the world, in Sherlock's eye.

"Ooh, Sherlock Holmes, high-and-mighty. It's interesting how little it took to get you to come here." His dark eyes sparkled with glee. "And now I get to have my way with you," he practically sang.

**textto unknown He's not as soft as you may think. If he's hurt anywhere near the extent I am, I will personally murder you.**

Don't worry, Johnny boy. I won't hurt him nearly like I hurt you. -M

"Oh, this is glorious!" Moriarty was practically dancing with glee. "Although, I really ought to inform you of the rules of my little game. For every time your soldier boy threatens me, I get to hurt you."

Sherlock glared. He was regaining some of his strength now. "Do what you like. Murder me. Torture me. Scar or brand or whatever. It won't stop them from finding you."

Moriarty grimaced. A playful grimace, one that didn't actually mean he was in any sort of pain. "No, no, I don't think you understand. Your pet got a physical torture, and ohh, I did enjoy that, but for you, something different. Something a bit more…elegant." He switched on the radio to an eighties station. Greatest hits. "I do so love the eighties. The best thing is that the songs keep coming up time and time again. I know how much you love music. Consider it something to remember our little game by."

Sherlock steeled himself as he felt his underwear slip down. He'd known what was coming. He was as prepared as anyone could be. But he wasn't prepared for Moriarty holding his face, forcing Sherlock's gaze to his own as Moran invaded him. Moriarty's eyes flickered with voyeuristic glee as the torment began.

From Moriarty, ten days later:

So happy to hear you're making a full recovery. Hope you've had a wonderful Christmas. I know I have. I really am enjoying my present. –M

I don't even know what to say to you. You disgust me. I will find him by tonight.-JW

John had been searching for days on end. His christmas had been the worst of his life, despite how much Harry tried to make it special.

The texts he'd been getting had been a huge torment, and had pushed him to do insane things.  
>Insane, Moriarty-like things.<br>He woke with a start. Another bad dream. He dreamed night after night that Sherlock was being hurt, and it unnerved him.

"Let us go." A muffled voice called out, and his eyes snapped to the corner of the room. Two men and a middle aged woman had been tied up there. But it was no mistake, he knew what he was doing.

"Dear, what was it?" He sighed as he pulled off the womans gag, "Hoyeeting? Yes. That was it. You all know why you're here. You work for him, and I know this because I've seen you following me and Sherlock. Which means you have _something_ to do with this. Now I'll ask you, nicely. Could you please tell me where Sherlock Holmes is being kept?"  
>The woman laughed. "No. We would be killed. Why would I want to risk my life?"<br>'Fine.' John thought. "Okay then." John pulled his gun from his top drawer. "If you don't tell me, you're risking your life, so do it." The woman was screeching. One of the men was biting at his gag trying to get it off, so John pulled it.  
>"Anything to add?" John snarled.<br>"The old Shipping docks, there are warehouses there. If you don't believe me then you can take my car to go and find him."  
>The man had beads of sweat coming from his forehead.<br>"Well, I was going to anyway. Just so you know, if I return and he is _not_ with me, I'll shoot you all in the head. If he is, then you are free to go. I know you won't go to the police, I have too much on you for that."

He re-gagged the two hostages and walked out. He quickly changed in another room, and ran out of the door into the street.  
>The car was sitting in China town, and he knew what it looked like. The thing about Moriarty was, he always had spies there. So he had to go to it when it was early. It was about 3am, so that was early enough.<p>

He finally got to the car. A nice expensive black one. Not really inconspicuous but it'd have to do for transport. He couldn't risk having a taxi driver taking him there, besides it was far too early to call one.

He slid into the car, he didn't have his license anymore, but cars couldn't have changed that much. Before he started it up, he pulled out Sherlock's mobile and sent a text.

tounknown

Game's over. -JW

fromSherlock Holmes

Darkness. Pain. Violation. Fear.

Sherlock's body told him it had been somewhere between one week and two since he'd sacrificed himself for John's safety. Christmas had passed and the new year, if it hadn't already arrived, was soon to follow. Not too long after that would be his birthday.

If he survived.

His mind had long since formed a pattern of blacking out in protection whenever Moriarty got the giggles. Now Sherlock looked up as Moriarty swore.

"Not bad, your Johnny-boy. He seems to think the game is over. He's not quite right." Moriarty looked to Sebastian. "Remember old Mrs. Mendeza?" Sebastian grinned. Sherlock had no idea what they were doing, and by this point, didn't really care. He hadn't eaten at all the whole time, and only given water twice. They hadn't let him sleep. If it wasn't Sebastian doing the dirty deeds, then it was some other minion. Sherlock had little physical strength left to resist when Moran tied a rope around his bare chest, under his arms, and hoisted him thirty feet into the air, only the bag that had been tied around his waist to protect what dignity he had left.

The rope dug into him, but there was nothing he could do. He was too exhausted and at any rate, if he tried to escape, he'd plunge to certain injury on the concrete floor below. But it hurt. The pressure on his ribs was excruciating, and as Moriarty and his associates had vacated the premises (except for the security camera), there was no one to hear Sherlock's feebly muttered pleas for relief, let alone see his tears.

The empty streets had nobody to stop him. He sped down the roads, toward the docks. It was cold inside the car, John shivered. He couldn't imagine how cold Sherlock must be. He had a bag with him, containing Sherlocks warmest clothes. John's gun was in his coat, he could feel it pressing against his chest. He passed about seven warehouses, probably all connected. It was going to take time to find Sherlock, but he was going to.

tounknown

I'm right here. -JW

fromSherlock Holmes

Sherlock heard his phone chime from sixty feet away. Thirty feet down and some to the side. He couldn't read it. But he knew it was probably John. The ropes were beginning to bruise him and he did his best to shift, but any movement at all was difficult.

It was also getting harder to breathe. Just a few more minutes, though, and John would be here. And if not John, then Mycroft or Lestrade or some other law enforcement or medical team. He just had to hold on, no matter how much it hurt. Bruises on bruises. Rope fibers in cuts. He felt like he was drowning from the pressure on his chest.

But even if John found the specific warehouse he was in, would he think to look toward the ceiling for Sherlock? Or would he stick to two-dimensional searching?

John decided to play a game of chance. Warehouse four. That was the one he could hear the laughter from. He shifted in, holding his gun, loaded. Two henchmen bolted round the corner of the big, grey, dusty room. Two loud and deafening bangs, and John walked on.  
>He could hear a strangled screaming, coming from somewhere in the room. There was nobody there. Obviously, Moriarty had moved out, but somebody still needed help. But where were they?<p>

"John…" It was a strangled cry. Sherlock gasped. Every breath was painful, as there was essentially a hundred-pound-plus weight on his chest being applied to a rope of one inch diameter. He twisted in agony.

"John!" He tried again. "Up! Look up!" His gasps for breath were becoming harder, and he struggled against his bonds, just to try to relieve some of the pressure. Seeing John had infused him with a bit more energy, but was it a dying spurt of adrenaline?

"Please," he choked out. "John—" He had neither the energy nor the breath for words, having used it up in his attempt to get John to hear him. So he went limp again. Still conscious, but only just.

There was a ladder nearby, but it was obviously too small. Moriarty wasn't going to make this easier, at all. John climbed up and pulled at the rope, but this made it tighter. He had to loosen it.  
>He stepped down and ran back to the car, he took out the crowbar that Harry had put in there for her own safety a few days ago. He sprinted back, Sherlock was unconscious by the looks of it.<br>He stepped up the ladder and tried to snap the rope with the crowbar. It wasn't working well, but it would have to do. Sherlock moaned as if it was pure agony. Every so often he'd pass out and then regain consciousness. The rope finally snapped, and Sherlock dropped. John managed to grab onto his arm.  
>"Come on, we need to get to a hospital." He gasped as he held him. "I was so worried." He carried him out to the car and sat him in the back with 2 blankets over him. "I can't dress you, your wounds need medical attention. Hospital or do you want me to do it?"<p>

Sherlock flinched at John's touch. He breathed delightful gulps of air in for a few minutes before he could speak. He was only just coming out of the tunnel of enforced oblivion when they got to the car.

"The…" He breathed heavily. "Hospital. They'll take photos…court case…"

He was shaking and weak, understandably, but at least he could breathe again. He pulled the blankets tight around him. He wanted to sleep. There was an eerie disconnect between his mind and body, like he just sort of wasn't there physically, and he was staring out through the eyes of someone else. His mind couldn't cope with what his body had been through.

"Thank you…" he mumbled before drifting off into a far more pleasant sleep than he'd been allowed to touch over the past ten days.

It had been a long few days. Sherlock was eating as he usually did, and sleeping more often. His wounds weren't healing so easily, but John tended to them everyday.  
>"Hello." John walked in with a tray laden with soup and bread. "It's not much, try and eat something." Sherlock shook his head. He was back to normal, physically. John was worried about the mental effects the whole ordeal had inflicted. "I needed to ask, although I know you'll probably tell me to piss off…" He gulped, "Do you want to talk about what happened? I feel as if.. I won't sleep until I know."<p>

Sherlock's eyes went from the distant stare they had been inclined towards of late and turned to settle on John. How could he possibly explain that Moran had dressed—very convincingly—as John before violating him? How could he begin to express the trauma inflicted every time Moriarty had kissed him on the nose—John's private gesture? The ten days he'd spent in Moriarty's clutches had been among the worst in his life. He understood the need to discuss his experiences, but he wanted to blank it from his mind. Now he could not look at John without seeing Moran's leer somewhere in his mind. But it was stupid. John was John, Moran was Moran. They would never be the same person. (His mind whispered that just as Moriarty was Sherlock's equal/opposite, the monster he could become if things went wrong, so too was Moran the opposite side of John's coin…)

Slowly, cautiously, for John's sake, he spoke, albeit falteringly. "He tried—he took what makes us—he used our private life against me. Our _methods_—he corrupted our private—our private gestures. He—um—I'm sorry, John, I can't—it—the blackest days of my life. But at least they were mine and not yours. I'm not sure—I don't think you would have survived. Not, at least, with sanity intact." He shuddered, fighting tears. He mustn't let John see him like that again. It was horrible last time. And he certainly didn't want John to know that a part of his mind was screaming for oblivion—a stupid, irrational part he wasn't going to listen to, but it was a part of him nonetheless. He tried to smile comfortingly, but it went wrong and ended up more like the desperate look a lost five-year-old gives a policeman, a pleading look, one that screamed for help.

Excerpt from Sherlock's private blog:

**Apologies for vagueness; I haven't slept soundly in too long and need to get this out before I have a complete meltdown **

Every time he walks away, I see the man who tried to be him; not out of love, but of sadism. Mine is shorter, of course, but in all other aspects, the image is perfect. It hurts because I can't separate my vision of both military men. I doubt if I'll ever be able to.

And when he touches me with those skilled doctor's hands, trying to heal my physical wounds, he's frightened for me. I can feel it in the tremble and the unusual gentleness. He thinks I'm fragile at heart—that beneath my diamond exterior lies a heart of glass.

He's right. The glass is splintered and there's very little to keep it from utterly shattering. Even the diamond is cracked.

The little things I thought were private to us were stolen. Our song. Our kiss. Our intimate acts. I don't know if I can

I'll never be able to think of us the same way, not now that Moriarty and his

I only take comfort in the fact that it is not John who has suffered in this way. He's had enough tragedy in his life. He didn't need this one.

**John's reply:**

I'm going to kill them both. No wonder you hate to be around me, after what they did.

**Sherlock's reply:**

It wasn't only my memories of you they stole. If he chose, they also had a very convincing Myc

I can't

I think I'm going mad, John.

Are you going to hunt them down quite literally?

"I'm going to kill him, one day." John felt a boiling hatred bubbling under his skin. Moriarty's name made him wretch and flinch. He was disgusting, mentally unstable, sick, strange, perverted and over all cruel. The fact that he'd used John against Sherlock made him even more angry. Now Sherlock would never look at John the same, and it made him sick. All because of a sick, sadistic kink.  
>"He'll get what he deserves, and that Moran, too. They did things to me that are quite unspeakable, I know you wouldn't want to hear, so I shan't.. explain." John thought back to when Jim had wore a coat quite similar to Sherlock's before he.. violated him. He'd never blamed it on Sherlock, of course, but he'd never looked at that coat the same. He could only imagine how sick Sherlock felt every single time he looked at him, and it made him want to rip Jim's flesh from his bones whilst he was still alive, still screaming for mercy.<p>

"This whole experience has changed me." John muttered quietly. "I feel quite… cold. That's the only thing I can think of. I feel cold, right down to my bones. I want his blood on my hands, not for what he did to me, but for what he did to you. You must feel disgusted when you look at me, because of him."

Sherlock realized this, too, was part of Moriarty's plan to psychologically ruin them. He breathed slowly and deliberately after he felt himself blacking out with horror when he heard John speak. He couldn't think of anything except how utterly John was turning into Moran—a willing, even eager, murderer. The thought was like a further crack in his already shattering soul.

"John," he said as sharply as he could. "Don't say—" He swallowed hard. "Don't be—" _Don't turn into them_, he couldn't say. Despite his controlled effort, the look of sinister determination on John's face caused Sherlock to begin hyperventilating. All the coldness of Moran's eyes had seeped through to John's. He no longer saw the John he knew and cared about. The more he looked at John, the more he saw Moran. In his face. In his eyes. In his body language. Sherlock yearned desperately to get back to Baker Street. Maybe there, the familiar could halt or even reverse the transformation into what they were becoming—a homicidally vengeful ex-soldier and a man staring into the abyss of complete madness.

"If we—if we go home, maybe—maybe we can—"

He couldn't speak coherently anymore. He couldn't think coherently, either, for that matter. All he could do was feel, and the only feelings he felt were pain and fear.

**From Sherlock's blog:**

Oh. It's my birthday.

He had me longer than I thought.

All I want this year is sanity for both John and myself.

I doubt I'm going to get it.

**John:**

Happy Birthday, love. I got you a present, if you still want it?

**Sherlock:**

Of course. Why wouldn't I? Maybe it will help.

**From John's blog:**

(a photograph of Sherlock, sitting upright in bed, delirious, terrified and calling for John)

He's been like this for the past few days.

**From Sherlock's blog:**

the nightmares

oh God the nightmares

in my nightmares Moran is John or John is Moran; Moran has stolen John's body

once he's finished invading me he rips my chest open with his fingernails and takes out my heart and hands it to Moriarty

and of course I'm dying and it feels so strange to have no heartbeat

except there it is in his hand and he's looking at it like he's hungry

"you were right. love is a dangerous weakness. and you fell into the trap of emotions and now you're dying"

and I want to scream but I can't breathe because I'm dead

and then just for kicks, Moran in John's body rapes me again

please help

Sherlock looked.. worried. He didn't look at John, not like he used to. John kept patting Sherlock's knee, and smiling at him. It wasn't the same. John felt so angry, so lost… "I love you." John whispered in Sherlock's ear, as he walked out of the door. He couldn't feel anything to anyone but Sherlock.  
>The place where he was had been totally arranged by Mycroft, so it had all the medical necessities but it was not at all like a hospital. It wasn't nice, though. It still felt somewhat official. He just wanted to go home. Tomorrow, tomorrow they would leave.<p>

When they got home, the first thing Sherlock had done was head up to his room. His body language had made it clear that for a few hours at least, John was to stay out.

For a while, all he did was run his fingers over his things in an attempt to ground himself. He'd read about the effects of such severe torture, but thought he wouldn't be subject to it in the same way. That one event left him feeling like a shadow. He wasn't the Sherlock Holmes who had fearlessly fought off a seven-foot assassin. He wasn't the Sherlock Holmes who could be persuaded to have Christmas parties. He certainly wasn't the Sherlock Holmes who'd stolen an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. He felt like that person didn't exist any more. He was an ashy imprint of what he used to be.

Grief and anguish was something he wasn't used to feeling. He wanted the warmth of his bed, but he knew that wasn't going to be enough. Then he stepped on the loose floorboard and it creaked.

Yes.

He lifted the board and took out what he needed—a syringe, tourniquet, and everything else he needed to get very, very high. After he'd mixed the solution and tied off his arm, he typed but hadn't sent a text to John:

Require you urgently. I can't stop myself.  
>SH<p>

He hesitated to send it. In his current state, there was a chance John would get the wrong message—he wasn't attempting suicide, he was just trying to escape. He stared at his phone before sliding the needle into his muscle and pressing the plunger in.

He felt the tingle of the cocaine as it started to work. He removed the tourniquet, too late for further internal debate, and only then did he press send on the text that would bring John to help him.

John had come in the house when Sherlock had texted him. He heard gasping from upstairs. This was never a good sign.  
>"I'm ba- What the fuck…" Sherlock was slumped on the floor, gasping for air.<br>"What have you done?" John cried out as he picked him up and dragged him onto the bed. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He couldn't. He couldn't of done this. It wasn't possible.  
>"What have you taken? I can't save you unless I know!" John sobbed, the most scared he had ever been. "Please, Sherlock." His tears were splashing onto Sherlock's face, and for once in his life, John Watson felt alone and completely helpless.<p>

Sherlock gasped. He'd miscalculated the amount of cocaine he'd injected and he was in serious danger. His heart was racing wildly and he felt like his head was going to explode from the increase in blood pressure.

"Co—too much—cocaine—" He'd gone with the needle to forget his experience, but he couldn't breathe and it was reminding him of when he was hanging from the ceiling. "Tried—forget—have to forget—don't want to die—help—"

He was overdosing. And he was panicking. He felt the vomit rise in his throat and his muscles begin to contract into a seizure. Any minute now he could haemorrhage. His one escape route had betrayed him. Now he had to fight to remain conscious at all costs, because if he didn't, he might never wake up. He grabbed John's jumper tightly, silently pleading him not to leave until the paramedics which he assumed John was about to call would arrive. A moan of terror verging on a scream accompanied the stomach fluids as he seized.

John had already called the paramedics when Sherlock passed out.  
>"You promised me you'd stop!" John cried out, helplessly. "They'll be here any minute, please, hold on." He was becoming hysterical, he could lose Sherlock forever, and this time it was by his own hand.<p>

The paramedics came in and moved Sherlock, and told John he was too hysterical to be looking after him. They carted him away, and John had to follow behind in a car. He imagined the state of Sherlock's heart, the state of his breathing, and he began to panic.

When they got to the hospital, the first thing that happened was a small blanket was placed around John's shoulders. They asked him medical questions, and Sherlock's date of birth.. He had to tell them that it was his birthday, he had to tell them all the emotional trauma, and that he'd taken copious amounts of Cocaine. He lied to them and said it was an accident and not a suicide attempt, because he didn't know what happened. They made John wait, they made him stay away, not knowing, for once in his life, what was going on.

At 7:39 AM, they lost him for three minutes. Sherlock was clinically dead. But more than one of the medical personnel, including the attending emergency doctor, were a fan of John's blog and weren't going to let the detective die.

Light. No. He'd heard about the light of a near-death experience. He wasn't superstitious, but he refused to give up. He refused to go to it. No. He wasn't going to die. He heard buzzing. Electricity in his brain as they tried to revive him? Probably. (But wouldn't it be easier just to go into that sweet abyss?) _No!_ He couldn't do that. He couldn't surrender. Behind him was darkness. (The light whispered of comfort and happiness in a way he hadn't known since he was a toddler…) Between him and the blackness behind him was a pit of chaos—life. For an instant more, he took in his surroundings before leaping headlong back into the chaos.

At 7:42 AM, just as they were on the verge of declaring time of death, the heart monitor beeped—Sherlock Holmes was alive again.

John heard the shouting and the screaming. Nothing was going in. Sherlock was going to die, in his eyes. He was going to lose the only person he ever.. loved. He was going to be alone, again.

It must have been around 8:00 PM before they let him see Sherlock. They warned how he would look frail, but he always did. John stumbled into the room.  
>Sherlock was sleeping, or appeared to be. His breathing was shallow and his body looked broken, so much more than before.<p>

John knew what he had to do, for Sherlock's own good. He had to leave. He had to go back to Baker Street and pick up his things, he had to leave. He had to, he simply did. But no. No matter how much he thought about it, the frail man in the bed kept him in his seat, without being conscious.  
>Everything seemed to be an ongoing battle. It was worth it, though. The little personal things kept them sewn together, but.. Moriarty. He'd ruined them. He'd made Sherlock hate John. He'd slowly unpicked everything they'd worked so hard for. John slid down into the large pink chair next to his bed. Yet again he was going to sit next to him and pretend that it wasn't killing him. Sherlock stirred for about a second, but it was his body sorting itself out. John held onto his hand, and told him how much he loved him, although it'd be no use. Even if he was conscious, Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran had ruined any inkling of a feeling that Sherlock posessed, for nothing but fun.<p>

"John." Sherlock said it before he'd gained much of a hint of consciousness. Four days he'd been nothing but a body, his mind blanked into total blackness. Then, as his mind jumbled the attic of his brain around into some sort of semblance, he slowly opened his eyes. He started at first; the physical contact bringing back sensations of trauma, but felt the rough kindness and realized who it was. He smiled weakly. Even despite the turmoil of the past month, somehow he felt oddly calm. Maybe it was because of John. Maybe his near-death experience had sorted his brain back to its priorities. Who knew? Already his mind was reading John's body language and other signs. He could tell that John was contemplating doing something he didn't want to do. Sherlock gulped as his throat was dry. He wanted to ask what John's internal battle was, but figured it was neither the time nor place, and besides, if it was causing him this much trouble there was only one thing it could have been.

"Stay," he croaked, more a command than a plea. "I need you." His voice wasn't working well enough to finish the thought: _if you leave, than all I have are memories of a John that was never you. All I will have is Moran._

John looked up. Sherlock was awake and smiling, weakly. "Stay, I need you." He'd said. Never before had he admitted it, and it was all that John had needed to hear.  
>"I didn't really want to go." He held onto his hand, and grinned up at him. He looked so frail, so much more that usual. John began to yawn, and it wasn't long before the past four days caught up with him, and he dropped off in the chair.<p>

For once, his dreams weren't filled of gunshots and screams.

Sherlock felt, for the first time in month, not happy exactly, but fulfilled. He was going to be fine.


	3. Split

I won't let them hurt either of you again. –Avery

I doubt you can stop them, but thank you. -JW

When the sun rose, Sherlock was staring at a shirt which had been spread out across the sofa. It was plainly the shirt of a killer—the blood pattern made it obvious, to Sherlock, that whoever had worn this had viciously slit the throat of someone who'd been on their knees. The enormous amount of blood suggested that it had been a murder in the heat of the moment—it hadn't been premeditated, but the kill was still extremely passionate, probably a vigilante-type kill.

He'd been working on the problem since three this morning. He hadn't slept. In light of his recent experiences, it was best to focus on his work; if nothing else, he thought more clearly. They'd been back in Baker Street for a few weeks now, and life had resumed mostly as normal. (Sherlock was still more physically distant than he used to be, and he would go into a sort of trance whenever Moran was mentioned or whenever John wore his parka, but aside from that, the tragedy seemed completely behind him.) He heard John enter the room, and, by way of greeting, proceeded to launch into exposition of the case.

"Thirty six year old male with no previous criminal record of assault turns up out of the blue. He has an enormous memory gap of several hours, during which time he managed to get from his flat in central London back to his flat, but upon snapping out of his stupor, noticed he was covered in blood. He had no memory of committing any sort of crime. This isn't the first time he's suffered memory loss, but it's the first time there's been any evidence of him leaving his flat, let alone committing a crime." He tilted his head, trying to gain every tiny little clue he could. A case was a case, and he found this one particularly interesting. He was fairly certain that John would notice that the shirt, aside from the blood, was identical to one of Sherlock's own, but that fact was irrelevant to the case itself—loads of people wear those shirts.

Sherlock looked up at John to see what he thought of this interesting case. "Ideas?"

"That looks like your shirt." John said, as he slumped down onto the couch. "Have you been slitting throats?" He asked, jokingly.  
>Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and he got back to the case.<br>"Well, he needs to be taken in for therapy, obviously. His brain is clearly blocking out violent memories, or maybe ones that would cause grievous amounts of guilt."  
>He sighed. "But you already know that, so, I'm useless, once again."<p>

He stood up and went into the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Mm." He didn't dare tell John the truth—it really was his shirt. He was speaking of himself. But at the moment, he just saw it as a case—it was the only way to objectively observe what was happening. "It's possible. The—the client has suffered quite a lot in recent days and there is a possibility of repressed memories." He didn't want to go to therapy. Sherlock frowned. "There's no precedent for other dissociative behaviour, certainly not violent reactions. At the moment I'm trying to figure out if he really did kill someone or if it was just set up to look like that."

John had switched on the news. Now it was telling a story about a murdered man in the West End, evidently the first kill of a would-be serial killer as he'd left a calling card: a single instance of a flower called Bird's Foot Trefoil placed on the body—the flower that symbolizes revenge. Sherlock's phone rang. It was Lestrade. After he heard what Lestrade had to say, he hoped he hadn't gone pale.

"Um…that was a new development—apparently, the murder on the news is possibly connected to this. His throat was slit and there was a cigarette butt stabbed into the wound. The same ash is on this shirt. This shirt belonged to the killer, who was smoking at the time. But he gave up smoking." His eyes were distant and frantic. "Why would a man who stopped smoking and has little history of violent behaviour slit the throat of someone in an alley, stab the cigarette into the wound, leave a calling card, and return home with no memory of the crime?" He sat for a while, perfectly still, trying not to betray his panic as all evidence points to himself as the killer in a dissociative trance. "I'll take that tea now."

"Split personality." John shouted. He looked up and Sherlock and smiled. "Does that help you at all? Clearly, the killer has no recollection because he has a split personality.. Or maybe, _maybe_ he's a sleeper spy? No, okay, silly suggestions." John went quiet. "God, I'm useless." Sherlock had gone pale, paler than usual. "Are you okay?" He asked, but Sherlock didn't answer. "Sherlock? Mind palace again? God." He went into the kitchen and made Sherlock's tea. He came back out and Sherlock had moved into his bedroom, John quietly followed, tea in hand.

Split personality. It sent chills down Sherlock's spine. "That's also a possibility—the split personality. There's a family history." His great-uncle Thom had no fewer than five distinct personalities, and Sherlock had only met him once but had seen the full spectrum—everything from a timid, kindly uncle to a paranoid war veteran. The thought terrified him. Particularly if his other self was a murderer.

"John, I…" Where was he going with this? He didn't want to worry John, but he felt strange holding anything back from him. So he tried a different approach. "Do you think it would be too soon…for a shag?" What? That was not even slightly what he'd wanted to say, but it was an interesting experiment all the same. "To see how much…we've recovered."

At the wrong moment, John had sipped his tea. He almost spat it out when Sherlock mentioned it.  
>"You're rather straight to the point." John spluttered. "Well, I say straight.." Sherlock was glaring at him, so he decided to take him seriously.<br>"I was under the impression that I disgusted you, after the whole, Moran ordeal." John slumped down onto the bed. "Did you really want to, or did it just slip out?" Sherlock had blurted it out rather suddenly, but John could never tell when it was by accident.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. "I think we should at least try. And I can always let you know if it won't work out. I need to know how much I've…gotten over what happened. Besides, the endorphins could kick my brain into gear on this case, if nothing else." He was plainly hesitant. "I mean, if you think it's too soon, then we don't have to, I just…" _I have to know I am not evil._

"What?" John ushered. "You look like there's something bothering you, and it can't be what happened to us, because you're willing to try.. So, what is it?" Sherlock went extremely quiet. "I'm willing to try to, I want to, really, but if you're bothered by something, I want to know before we go ahead." He stayed quiet, his eyes dashing from one side of John's face to the other, like he was deducing every part of him. John shivered. "You could at least talk.."

"The shirt is mine," Sherlock said quietly. "That shirt. The bloody shirt. The…the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer's shirt. I need to know I'm not like that. I can't—now now, not after everything. I need to know I'm not a killer." He put his face in his hands. "Of course, just because of the position and everything doesn't mean I was the killer—possibly the killer drugged me and stole my shirt and then killed him to make it look like I did, but the fact is that I don't know what happened." He was tense and had pulled himself, not into a ball, but certainly in a defensive position. "I have to know that I can love more than I can hate."

John went silent. He looked up at Sherlock, who looked like he was about to implode with confusion. "You should have told me…" He almost whispered. "I'd never think bad of you." Sherlock was shaking slightly. "You can't love, more than you hate, because you do neither, so I don't see why you're so worried. We have each other, and no matter who frames you, I won't leave." He kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "I promise you."

At that one little touch, something happened. Sherlock growled "No." He practically threw John across the room and stormed out, leaving his jacket behind. Nothing about him was the same as he left. His walk was more aggressive. His pace was more determined. He had purpose.

Three hours after he'd walked out unprovoked, the phone lit up with a text (Sherlock had left it behind). It was Lestrade.

The victim was one of Moriarty's men.

The phone chimed again.

Received note from flower killer. Think you should take a look.

It was then that Sherlock opened the door. He took two steps in and froze on the stairs. He was blood-soaked and stank of tobacco smoke. He looked around, confused.

"How did I..?" He took a few more steps up to their rooms. "I was in the chair, then I was on the staircase." His eyes were wide and slightly panicky. "What? I don't—I blacked out." He looked down at his clothing and swayed as he realized it was blood on him and not rain. "It's happened again. We need to—I don't know." He quickly tore off his shirt and threw it to the side, hyperventilating slightly and certainly shaky. He paced frantically. "What do we do? What can we do?"

Hello, love. Missed me? I've been thinking about you /all/ day long. xxxx -M.

There are no words to describe how I feel about you. But I hear you've had a spot of trouble with one of your men being killed. I'd be looking out for that Bird's Foot Trefoil killer.

Spot of trouble, well, /yeah/, sure. But men I can alllllways replace, no? Don't be stupid, Sherlock dear. Who's to say that the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer isn't under me? xxxx -M

I am. One: why would your own men start killing one another off with vengeance as the motive? Two: I know who he is. –SH

After Sherlock had walked out, John slumped against the wall he'd been thrown at. His head was spinning, and he'd hurt his back, rather badly. "Right.." He muttered, a hot tear splashed down his shirt. _Control yourself. You've never been treated like this in your life, why start now because of a simple emotion?__  
><em>John got up, and stormed to the kitchen. He fixed himself a scotch, and almost fell down into the chair.

Around three or four hours later, Sherlock staggered in, covered in blood.  
>"What.. Oh my god, Sherlock give me the shirt." John grabbed it and paced the room, thinking what to do.<br>"We'll have to burn it… Well that's if you want my input, after before I can see that my company is no longer to your liking." John put his hand on his head, trying to think. "Whatever I've done.." Sherlock was looking at him confused. _Of course he doesn't remember anything. Split personality, you see? _"Never mind." John snapped. He went into his room to lay down on the bed.

Sherlock was beginning to piece things together. John had done something to trigger his other personality. This other personality was violent, homicidally so. Traumatic events could cause the mental split, and God knew he'd had enough of those in recent days.

"John," he said slowly to John's door, trying not to lose control. "I don't know what is happening to my mind. I'm—I'm terrified. And this time, it's not drug-induced." John wasn't answering. Sherlock breathed deeply. He had to focus on his work. And it was lucky he'd snapped into place, too, as the doorbell rang. Sherlock threw on a shirt. "Ah, Detective Inspector," he said smoothly. "You have something?"

"Yeah. There's another body, flower and everything—even the cigarette butt. But this is why I'm really here." Lestrade handed Sherlock a hand-written letter.

Vengeance for the broken, for the shattered, for the fallen. Vengeance on those who took it upon themselves to shatter fragile glass. I won't stop until the wrongs are righted.  
>-Avery<p>

The writing was completely unlike Sherlock's, but somehow he knew that he'd written it and it was all he could do to maintain the façade of calmness that he knew only John or Mycroft could see through. He had a sort of distant flashback to taking the pen-cap off and writing "vengeance", but that was all. Lestrade continued. "That note turned up at the station about an hour before we found the second body. Looks like we've got a serial killer on our hands."

"Hardly. There have only been two victims. Besides, revenge is the motive. You say the first victim worked for Moriarty?" He hoped that the hesitation before the dreaded name wasn't too obvious.

"Apparently."

"In what capacity?"

"Don't know. He got pay-outs from Moriarty every few weeks or so, that's all we know. And the DNA of the victim matches some samples from rape/murder victims three years ago."

"Interesting…" _And terrifying._ "So the killer is taking vengeance for those crimes?" _It would make sense._

"That's what it looks like."

The more Sherlock thought about it, the more he was afraid he was shaking. "Thank you, Detective Inspector, if I need anything, I'll text you." He shooed Lestrade out before staring at the note, breathing shallowly.

John peered round the door. Sherlock was standing there, probably in his mind palace. "Do you want me to stay?" John muttered, sheepishly. His eyes were puffier than usual and his throat was hoarse. "If you don't, I'll go." His body was behind the door in case Sherlock lashed out again. Instead, Sherlock looked up at him. "Look, Sherlock. I know this isn't your fault, but I mean, as you are now, do you want me to stay? Do you want me to help you? Or do you want to be left to your own devices?" He sniffed. "I just want you to be okay, at the end of this whole thing."

Sherlock was undeniably shaking now. "John. I need you to read the killer's note." He handed it to John and watched him read it. "I remem—" He swallowed. "I remember writing that. Only barely, but I do. I know it's not my writing, but multiple personalities often have different writing. What frightens me is that _I killed two people_." Seeing John's look, he added: "Yes, there's been a second victim." He breathed a shuddering breath. "I think I did it for us. I think…I think _Avery_ did it to protect us from—from what happened." He grabbed John's shoulders and stared into his eyes. "If you leave, I'm not sure I can stay—" He looked away with a gulp. "I'm not sure I'll be able to stay Sherlock."

John was shaking like there was a gun to his head. Sherlock had killed, but more than that, when he was the 'other person' he could have killed John, unless he had the rationality that he said he did. But John had no proof of that.  
>He stood on his tip toes and kissed Sherlock, only softly, but just to prove that he was going to stay. "Okay then. He smiled as he shrunk back down to his normal height. "We need to burn your shirts, we need to do something for when you change personalities, and we need to make tea." Sherlock frowned at him. "Oh come on, tea solves everything." And John sauntered off into the kitchen, still shaking, but trying to look like he was fine.<p>

_Interesting how one kiss can trigger a change and another doesn't_. Sherlock stood, feeling woozy, distant, and he knew that a change almost happened. He was glad that John wasn't forcing him to a therapist or something, but he knew something was wrong and that he really did need help. He took the teacup, trying to hide the shaking clank of dish on dish as he stirred it.

"My first instinct to prevent—" He shut his eyes. He refused to think of Avery as himself, but knew that would only probably add to the dissociation. "To prevent any further crimes is to tie me up, but in light of the original psychological trauma that might not be a good idea." He took a large gulp of tea which singed his tongue. "I'm a little surprised at how well you're taking this whole thing. I'm scared out of my wits—how can you be so…so calm? I'm going out of my mind…poor choice of words." He downed the rest of it. "How are we going to do this? And I don't think we should mention what happened those weeks or make physical contact for a while. I'm sorry. We can't have anything that reminds me of…that."

"I'm bloody terrified. But I'm used to this feeling, I've killed people myself. The only think I'm worrying about is you getting caught." He sipped his tea. "I mean, come on. Lestrade can't let you off, anymore." He frowned. "Also, when you do want to come near me again, just hug me or something. I don't want to cause trouble." He sipped his tea again. "You need to stay away from things that.. I don't know, make you feel? Like drugs? Maybe that way, you'll be able to control it." He looked up. Sherlock has his hands to his face, his thinking pose. "I'll leave you to it." He took his tea into his bedroom and sat down. _He thinks you're disgusting, don't you see? Idiot, he's never liked you.___

Most of the time, the voice in Johns head sounded venomous and cruel. It wasn't his own. It was Jim's. He told him how vile he was, how much Sherlock would never want him, how stupid and useless and boring in comparison to everyone else. John knew this was just an effect from the trauma, but it still frightened him, immensely.  
><em>He'd rather be alone, why don't you just leave? You're useless, he doesn't need you, he never did. You're just something he shows off to the world, something he'll use to show he's normal. You're not special, so why did he pick you? Because you were stupid enough to care. <em>

John wanted to scream, but he couldn't. The voice was in his own head, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never get rid of it. He wanted to beg for mercy, _  
><em>but then he'd be absolutely insane. He was never alone, ever. There was always that voice that told him how much Sherlock could do better. He wanted to tell him everything, but Sherlock had his own issues, and anyway, he'd probably think John was mentally unstable, even more so than himself.

The door to John's room slammed open as if by police force. Sherlock stood in the doorway, his eyes blazing. Sherlock was gone and Avery was in his place. "If you don't love him, say it. If you can't love him, let him know. If you think he needs to be alone, tell him. I have killed for both of you. If you can't get over your trauma, check yourself into a therapist's office. But don't put it on him. He's far more fragile than even you know. Why do you think I'm protecting you?"

Avery turned and walked away, putting a cigarette to his lips and lighting it.

"I can't believe you're the same man who fought in a war. Only cowards feel sorry for themselves. Maybe he was wrong about you."

The door to 221B shut and Avery was out in the world again, unsupervised.

_See? I told you. I may of hurt you, but he's going to kill you. You need to pack and get out, go on, do it.  
><em>John pulled his suitcase out from under his bed. He pushed everything he owned into it at lightning speed. He was shaking as he did it, but no matter how wrong it felt, the voice screamed at him to carry on. _He hates you, you low life piece of scum. You're a coward, worthless. You need to get away before he kills you.  
><em>John stopped. Why would a negative voice tell him to save himself. He sat down on the bed. _What are you doing, you prick? Pack your bags and get out or we're dead!_

__He stormed into Sherlock's room, looking for anything; drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, but he'd hidden them. He turned the room upside down, went through his sock drawer, looked inside the skull, behind the pictures, on the shelves, but nothing. He checked under Sherlock's pillow. Obvious. It was safe there. Why would John look there? He pulled out one bag of cocaine. If he was going to deal with Sherlock, he was going to show him what it was like to live with himself.

It was only an hour after he'd left that Sherlock returned (and it was Sherlock), breathing frantically. He had caught himself just before the kill. One moment, in his mind, he was sitting, thinking about how to restrain himself, and the next he was standing over a beaten man in an alley, a knife just beginning to press into the man's skin. He'd fled the scene. How could he do anything else?

He knew he was insane. He knew he had to get help. He'd end up worse than he could have ever imagined. After five minutes of self-centred panic, he realized he couldn't hear any sign of John.

_No. No. No. This can't be happening. _He opened the door to John's room and saw him on the bed, undeniably a victim of Sherlock's own addiction. But he knew it was John's first time.

Then suddenly Avery was back, shouting and swearing and hitting John, accusing him of being a selfish coward more than anything else.

But the fit passed, and Sherlock saw what he'd done. Even now it seemed like Sherlock wasn't there, but he was. He was sobbing and gently shaking John, imploring him to wake up, like a six-year-old trying to revive a dead cat. Then he remembered his first aid training and checked for a pulse.

There wasn't one. Between the drugs and the beatings, Sherlock had killed the only friend he'd ever had.

"No! Don't give up on me, John Hamish Watson!" He dialed 999 as he began administering CPR in a desperate attempt to prevent the disaster of his (and Moriarty's) making. He huffed around the chest compressions. "My friend has been beaten and I think probably overdosed on cocaine. He doesn't have a pulse. I'm administering CPR. 221B Baker Street." He knew it might be too late, but he had to try.

When the paramedics arrived, they had to physically force Sherlock away. They didn't know if John was going to survive. Sherlock didn't remember the trip to the hospital. But he knew, somehow, that he was still Sherlock and not Avery. He sat in the emergency room's waiting area, knowing that if John died, he'd be both legally and morally responsible.

**On the blogs:**

Sherlock: What have I done?

Avery: Only what you thought you needed to. If he couldn't handle your trauma, it's not your fault.

Sherlock: He overdosed because of me, and you're the one who beat him the rest of the way to death. If I thought I couldn't have friends before, you've ruined me.

Avery: I'm protecting you. Both of you. But I can't protect you from yourselves.

But then again, perhaps I can.

Sherlock: Don't you dare.

If he dies because of your homicidal temper, I'll have you locked up.

Avery: Don't threaten me. It's not your style. Though to be honest, I'm surprised you haven't tried already.

Sherlock: Leave me alone. I was fine until you came along.

Avery: No, you weren't. You were broken, damaged, weak. I arrived that morning on which you died and I've been keeping your traumas and your pains. And I've been avenging them. You're better.

Sherlock: You beat John to death. Literally. Because you couldn't handle that he wanted to get high. How is that better than what I was?

Avery: You're living again. Before I came along, you were a waste of the food you were eating. After they raped you, you just sat like a useless lump of flesh. You couldn't think. You couldn't live. You could barely eat and drink. You sat and you had nightmares and you didn't leave your bed. Your boyfriend couldn't even walk away without you whimpering and seeing Moran. You were nothing. It hurt to feel that. Never again.

Besides, John's still alive.

Sherlock: He might still die. If he does, I'll kill you. I mean it. You know I do.

Avery: Yes, I do. And you and I both know what that would mean.

John hadn't known how much to take. He felt his body shaking, his stomach jumping, his heart dancing, his legs collapsed and he managed to pull himself onto the bed. Then everything went blurry. He heard somebody coming in. _Sherlock_. He would help.

The next thing he knew, his was being beaten.  
>"You're a fucking coward! I have killed for you! I tried to protect you, you worthless piece of scum!"<br>His body gave out from the repeated traumas to the chest.

Blackness. Crying. Begging. Somebody was pushing on his chest. No change.

He heard voices. "He's crashing, move out of the way!"  
>What felt like a million vaults ripped through his chest, forcing his lungs to breathe, and his heart to beat. He couldn't see for moments after, but he knew what would await him when he did. Sherlock would be allowed in, and he wouldn't remember.<br>"Doctor Watson, we need to know, who did this to you?" A females voice asked.  
>He knew who it was. He knew why he did it. But he didn't say.<br>"I didn't see them."  
>"Did you try to commit suicide?"<br>"No."  
>"Thank you for your time." and she was gone.<p>

His vision was coming back, he could see something dark sitting in the chair next to him. He guessed who it was. He opened his eyes, but he didn't look at him. He didn't know if it was Sherlock or Avery. He kept quiet. The person, whichever one it was, held on tightly to his hand. But he didn't respond. Why should he?  
><em>You promised him you would never leave. You promised you'd stay until he said he wanted you gone. You love him. Not Avery, but Sherlock. Just remember all the good times you've had with him. If you were to detach from him now, then I'd never get to finish my little game, now would I?<br>_He shuddered. He wanted Sherlock to be himself again. He wanted Avery gone, but there was nothing he could do.

**Sherlock's blog:**

I feel like my mind is betraying me. It hurts. What Avery said is right. Broken glass.

Some time ago I posted how I felt like my soul was made of glass and my mind was diamond. I also remarked how even the diamond was cracking.

That's not true anymore. Both are glass. Both are splintered. The wrong push and it'll shatter completely.

No—I take that back, I think I've always been splintered from childhood. But the cracks are getting larger. I'm honestly not sure what's holding the shards in place. I'm not sure anything is.

The Bird's Foot Trefoil killer—Avery—has attacked John, and if I hadn't known CPR, he would have killed him.

I think I need help. There's no way I'll ever be what I was. I can pull fragments of my mind together if I just think. If I focus, I can almost be what I used to be. But even then, I feel so helpless. I don't like feeling like this. I don't like feeling. What happened to those days when I was just a mind?

I'm not sure I'm sane. In fact, I'm rather certain I'm not.

Sherlock heard the pulse monitor increase and knew it was only one thing. John was regaining consciousness. He squeezed John's hand a bit tighter. It was still a gesture he was getting used to.

"I know you're awake, John." He paused. "I know…I know the way we are isn't…it's not normal. Especially recently." He was shaking. "It's all to do with—" He cut himself off before he said anything worse. "I've been selfish. I'll understand if you want to leave me. I'm not sure I'd stay with me, either." He hated the fact that he wasn't crying. He knew he should be, but he was in too much shock to even muster up one little drop. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I'd leave."

"It's me or him." John spat. Something he'd never thought he'd say. "You get rid of him, soon, or I'll leave. I'll have to. I almost died."  
>Sherlock's hand was still gripping onto his. He squeezed back.<br>"I love you, Sherlock. I don't love Avery, however. I want _you_ back. I don't want him. He's the side of you I thought you'd never unleash. Please, get rid of him, for me. I know it's hard, but I need you to."  
>Sherlock wasn't crying. John put it all down to the shock. He should have been getting medical attention, but as John was his doctor, and he couldn't even get up, he'd have to wait.<br>He moved his hand up to Sherlock's curls, and he ruffled them.  
>"I forgive you." He muttered, tiredly. "After all, I did take too much, you wouldn't.. <em>he <em>wouldn't have beaten me if I was fine. It's all my own fault."

A dry sob escaped Sherlock. "I...I can't. I don't know how to be rid of Avery. Trust me, no one wants to get him out of my mind more than I do. We...we talked on our blogs. Do you remember when Mrs. Hudson got attacked and I fought the man who did it? That's what Avery is, but without my self-control. He told me that after what happened on Christmas, before he came along, that I was a useless lump of flesh that wasn't even worth the cost of the food I was barely eating. I can't fight him." John's slow recovery was easing him, but he knew that it wouldn't take too much to bring Avery back out. "But I think he cares in a way I can't. He keeps saying he's trying to protect us. I don't think that only means...the thing we can't tell anyone about. I think he wants us to be happy. But I think he doesn't know how to get us there."

"John," he said after a few moments. "Promise me that when you get out of the hospital, no matter what Avery or I say, you're going to get me help and constant surveillance. Maybe even institutionalize me. I can't cope, knowing—" He swallowed and lowered his voice. "Knowing I've killed two men and nearly killed a third."

Lestrade entered. "Sorry to bother you, Sherlock, but I was told you were here. That Bird's Foot Trefoil killer let one get away. The victim said he was in an alley and the killer showed up and started spouting about revenge. He'd put the flower on his head and everything, smoking, about to kill him, but then for some reason, this Avery stopped and ran away."

Sherlock pretended to be interested, though he knew exactly where the story went from there. "Inter—"

"The victim got a clear look at the face." Lestrade looked at Sherlock stubbornly. Sherlock shifted as Lestrade held out the police sketch, a near-perfect match for Sherlock. "I haven't published it. Can you explain this?"

"Yes. But I won't. Not yet. It's too soon."

"Too soon?"

"Yes, that's what I said, too soon, didn't you hear me?"

"An emotional thing? I've never known you to hide behind that sort of bull. Tell me what you know or I'm going to—"

And that released Avery. Lestrade was slammed to the wall, Sherlock/Avery's arm choking him slightly. "Don't you get it? Sherlock's still trying to recover from his recent assault and you bully him. The only friend he ever had was put in hospital and you have the indecency to accuse him of murder. He didn't do it. I did. I killed them both and I would have killed the third if my time hadn't run out. So go back to your case files and your pastries and your casual shagging, and leave them alone." He released Lestrade, who gasped for a full minute, staring. Avery had moved toward the window and suddenly his posture softened-he was Sherlock again.

"It's happened again." He turned around and saw Lestrade's bruising neck. "My God. I…I don't…" He looked to John for both an explanation and forgiveness.

"We need to do something, Greg. He needs to be watched. It's not his fault. He has a split personality- Schizophrenia, Mania… Just help him. Pull some strings. It's not him, its.. somebody else."  
>Sherlock went quiet. Greg nodded, and walked out of the room, in shock.<br>"It's not your fault. You didn't ask to have two personalities in one body. We need to get.. to sort this out." John was terrified that Sherlock would change. Could you get my phone, please?"  
>Sherlock passed him his mobile, and he went straight to the phonebook.<p>

"Hello, Doctor Hussey? It's John Watson, you were treating my patient earlier this year, Mr Sherlock Holmes…"  
>John went on to explain, choosing his words carefully in case Sherlock changed again, all the while keeping his eye on him, just so he didn't leave the room.<p>

Sherlock closed his eyes and corrected John. "Schizophrenia and multiple personalities are two entirely different things." That made him feel a little better. Not much, but a little. Knowing his mind could still function its usual way, even just a tiny amount comforted him.

"When you're better—yes. Doctor Hussey. He's already seen me vulnerable." He shifted. "Although I don't have a terrific history with hypnotism and that's one of the most common ways of curing multiple personalities, or so I've heard." He put his hand over his eyes. "I'm tired. I'm so tired. How do you stand to put up with me, John? How can you go on, knowing how…broken I am and yet still manage to care about me? I don't understand."

**To Mycroft:**

I'm having trouble. Uncle Thom trouble. I thought I ought to inform you. -SH

**From Avery's blog:**

I would like to dedicate this post to the man responsible for my creation.

James Moriarty.

I will find you. I will exact my revenge. You will watch as I slit the throat of Sebastian Moran and stub my cigarette ashes in his trachea. Then I'll rip off your reproductive organs and tie you down on a roof in Qatar and watch you bake.

If you ever touch either of them again, you will die in the most painful way I can think of, and you know how creative I can be.

John snapped his phone shut. "Split personalities and Schizophrenia often go hand in hand. And I told you, I _love_ you. People do that when they love somebody. They put up with the bad things. I know you don't understand, but yeah. I could explain to you, but I don't see the point. You care about me enough to be here, and that's all I need." John tried to sit up, but Sherlock pushed him back down. "What now?" He protested, moodily.

"Now I apologize for ruining your happiness. If I hadn't been so dead-set on finding Moriarty, this would never have happened. I've been so selfish. You're the one in hospital, not me. And I put you there." He gestured for John to give him room to join him—not hard, given that Sherlock was practically a twig, and thinner still with recent hardship.

He lay his head on the pillow they were both sharing and whispered into John's ear: "Why do you love me?" He was shaking as if feverish. "No one ever has before." He was crying softly. He was feeling desperate to be needed, and for the first time since he was four, yearning to be loved. "I need to know what keeps you by my side. Is it some masochistic compulsion? I don't understand." He curled as tightly as he could in the small bed, quivering like a terrified child.

John turned onto his side. "I'm sure I've explained this before. You're brilliant, more so that any other being on the planet, and as much as Mycroft would like to protest, you're the smartest. You read me like a book the first day I met you, nobody else has ever tried… even though I'm dull and ordinary. You're attractive, not that it matters, and you care about me more than anyone else in your life, or it appears that way. I don't know, I can't explain it without sounding like a corny teen novel, just take my word for it, I do."  
>He wanted to hug Sherlock, but there was a chance Avery would rip him limb from limb.<br>"I don't want to leave, I know I'd regret it, more than anything." Sherlock was softly crying. "I won't go, really."

For an instant, it was Avery who spoke. "Dull? Ordinary? Do you really think I'd love you if you were boring? Have some faith in yourself." Then he shuddered and was Sherlock again. He tensed and tried his best not to curl up. He dry-sobbed once again and practically hid himself between John's arm and the rest of his body. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep going away." But before he could say anything else, the warm comfort of John's body heat had lulled him to sleep.

It wasn't a peaceful sleep. He twitched and groaned and occasionally muttered in French, but at least he was sleeping—both of him were sleeping.

In his dream, he was watching Avery at work. It was gruesome, but Sherlock could do nothing. He could only stand and observe as a man who looked like himself but was not the same slit the throat of a man in an alley. This was the murder he had regained control in time to prevent. But Avery still wanted it with an unbridled bloodlust. Sherlock recognized the victim as one of the men who had taken John from the van that horrible December day when Sherlock was last mostly sane. Avery smiled as the arterial blood splatter covered the walls and his own clothing. He placed a single flower on the body before using the exposed trachea of the victim as an ash tray. Sherlock knew that this was how it would have happened. "Stop," he begged as Avery examined his handiwork. No good. Then the scene changed and they were in the darkened warehouse in which Sherlock had his darkest days. Moran was tied on the floor, as was Moriarty. Avery was sharpening his knife and then using it to cut the stems from the flowers he used as a calling card. Sherlock couldn't move. The chilling voice that was his own but not his own spoke, and it was terrifying. "I want to hear you _scream_."

Sherlock jerked awake. The dream was already fading, but he knew he'd seen Avery's plans. But before he even gathered the courage to press himself closer to John, the dream had faded completely, leaving only the terror.

**Text to Mycroft:**

Mycroft, I think we should talk. My sanity is in doubt. Avery has killed and he wants to kill again. –SH

Avery spat back in a vicious voice. Was it him who loved him, or Sherlock? John shuddered, imagining if it were Avery, the beatings he'd get every time he tried to go near Sherlock.  
>"Who loves me? Him, or you, Avery?"<br>He was himself within seconds, sobbing against John, wrapping his arms as far around him as he could get. John stoked his hair, trying to get him to sleep, he needed that more than anything.

After a few minutes, he was asleep, but not peacefully. He was twitching and jerking, shouting in french, punching john in the chest by accident every so often. He was crying all the while, like he was trying to drag himself out of the dream, but John knew he couldn't wake him, it was too dangerous.

When he woke up, he jumped, giving John a shock.  
>"Are you okay, Sherlock?"<br>He didn't reply, he just pulled closer to John, burying his face into his chest, meaning his feet were off the of the bed. He was making loud sobbing noises, whilst he squeezed John like he was a lifeguard saving him from drowning.  
>"It's okay, I'm here. Just stay with me, please.." John felt himself welling up. The changes were becoming more frequent, and within a week or so, Sherlock would be completely gone, almost as if he had died when he overdosed.<br>"I love you." He sniffed, feeling Sherlock's heaving sobs against him. He just wanted him back to the way he was, but he had no idea what to do.

Sherlock couldn't think, and that was the worst part. Any moment, he was frightened of hurting John or himself or a total stranger. He'd been robbed of his rational mind. It was his second-biggest fear come to life. He tried desperately to think of what to do, but nothing came to mind. "I…I need you." He wouldn't say love. He couldn't. It was the most foreign of all emotions to him, and he wasn't sure he felt it. But he certainly needed John as a grounding force, his one and only friend. "I can't help it, I don't want to hurt you, but I honestly can't help it." He twitched. "Maybe…maybe nicotine will help? I'm withdrawing, too." His voice was calmer now that he'd come up with an idea; not Avery-calm, but more his normal self. "Would you mind if I…if I took a quick smoke? I know I said I'd stop but I don't have any patches."

John tensed. Sherlock didn't love him, Avery did.  
>"Sherlock.. I don't mind if you smoke, but… Avery said something before." He winced as he said it, "He said he loved me." He watched Sherlock's face very carefully, it looked contorted with pain and confusion. John felt sick, this monster, the one who brutally murdered people, who slammed him against walls with rage, who laughed at his pain, felt something more than care for him.<br>"I'm scared." John said meekly. He sat up and reached for Sherlock's coat, pulling the cigarettes from his pocket. "Here."

Sherlock froze, then he took the cigarettes. "He…" Sherlock was unable to finish the thought. "I'm frightened, too. He has the emotions I don't?" This worried Sherlock more than the rest of it. It meant his previous theory about his lack of emotion being neurological was wrong. It was some other sort of block, and one that Avery didn't have. He felt very, very sick.

"I have to…uh, I can't smoke in here. I'll be back."

It took him an hour and a half to come back, and when he did, he was wearing different clothing and an expression of total panic. He didn't even have the strength to say what he needed to: _it's happened again_. He hoped his face would say what his mouth could not. John saw. John understood. The look of horror in John's eyes compounded with his own caused Sherlock to black out.

**From Avery's blog:**

it feels so good to be let out of my cage. when I break through the walls of my prison and can lock him up for a while, safe, warm, protected, I am fulfilling my purpose. I need them both to be avenged.

"Sherlock, do you remember anything?" By this time, John was up and about, his body was bruised and cut, his back was aching, but he could walk with assistance. "Anything at all?" Sherlock looked at him blankly. It was getting hard to tell the two apart. "And I have a question for Avery. Why are you so violent to those who care for you?" John spat. "Come on, you can't hurt me here."

"I can't remember. I can never remember. This time…I was outside, lighting my cigarette, then I was changing clothes in Baker Street. I was covered in blood." Sherlock's phone chimed.

Found another one. I can't keep covering for you.  
>Lestrade<p>

Who?  
>SH<p>

The man from last time who was almost a victim. The one you insisted on interrogating in private outside about an hour ago.  
>Lestrade<p>

Sherlock showed the phone to John. "We have to do something." He plonked down in the chair. "And I don't think you can just talk to Avery and have him answer. I think he has to be triggered. I've read his blog, though. I think he's trying to protect us from anything or anyone who might jeopardize either our lives or our relationship. He's violent, angry, and vengeful. I've read about killers like him. He wants to act as a shield or a vigilante, but I think he's twisted enough where he doesn't understand that he's doing it the wrong way. All three victims were part of the gang that—" He frowned. "You remember. They were all there. Very specific victims. He's not killing for fun." Sherlock felt better, analyzing Avery as though he were just another killer he was examining for a case. But the major difference was that he knew exactly who the killer was.

"He frightens me, John. I've never been this frightened of anything before, not even when I was under the influence of that fear-gas and started hallucinating Moriarty. I look at you and I see your wounds and I can tell just by looking that it was my fist that hit you, my fingers that hurt you. You know I can. And I can't remember any of it. Not one second."

Blogging:

Sherlock: This is what you do to me, Avery. This isn't strength. This is fear.

Avery: Why do I frighten you? I'm helping you.

Sherlock: You kill. You've murdered three people. I don't know how to live like this—time jumps and I'm sitting at home, minding my own business and suddenly I'm somewhere else, covered in blood and Lestrade texts me to tell me that they've found another body. And I know it was you. And not just that, you hurt John—you practically killed him. I don't know where your limits are. I don't know where you'll stop. That scares me out of my mind.

Avery: I will never hurt you or John unprovoked. I lost my temper at John because he ran like a coward. I love him. It hurt to see him run away like a selfish, slimy, pathetic creature because I know he's not any of those.

Sherlock: Stop trying to justify your actions. I know why you did it. I don't like that you did what you did, and I will find a way to stop you from killing again.

I don't understand how you can love him. I've tried. He knows how hard I've tried. But I can't feel the same way about him that I know he feels about me. How is it possible that you do? You're proof that it's not a neurological defect. So what, then, lets you love when I can't?

What is it like to be in love?

Avery: Words cannot express it, Sherlock. There is no way to describe it. It is something that must be felt, not spoken of. I would do anything at all for him. And for you.

Sherlock: It is precisely that thought which terrifies me.

Avery: Why? I would have thought that you would admire my dedication.

Sherlock: I am not a monster. I am not a killer. You are both. You don't stop where you should. I knew that American was going to survive. If you had been around, you would have made sure he didn't. You're no better than Moriarty.

Avery: Do not say that to me again. You know what I'm capable of and you know I know your weaknesses and what you fear most. Never ever compare me to that filth. I know you understand how serious I am.

Sherlock: my God

John hugged him tightly. "Don't worry about it, I don't need to forgive you for anything, because, it wasn't you. You're.. you. For now. That's why I need to.. do something." John sighed. "Sherlock, do I have your permission to conduct an experiment?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Can I try to trigger him, in a confined area? I need to find out his weaknesses. I know he can hear everything, and feel your thoughts, but you need to trust me. Do you trust me?"

Sherlock smiled weakly. "I was on the verge of suggesting it, actually. But we should have someone with psychological training present. And cameras. I have to see him." He ran his hands through his hair. He knew this was going to hurt. "Lestrade's interrogation room would be perfect. Everything's there. The recording equipment, one-way mirrors, a clean environment with nothing to use as a weapon, an intercom system." He looked at John. "Are you sure you can do this? It won't be pleasant."

"I've already set it up, come with me." He grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him down to the psychology department. He greeted the doctors when he arrived, shaking hands.

"Into this room with Dr. Watson, please, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock was quiet, and did as he was asked. The room was white with a glass window with scientists behind it. There was a security guard in the room, to keep John protected.  
>A speaker boomed down into the room, "Mr Holmes, your partner tells us that you <em>can <em>have physical contact, but nothing too intimate. We're going to have him kissing you to see if there are any results. If not, we will then link up some wires to you, to see fluctuation in certain chemicals. With luck, we can sort this out."  
>"Are you okay with this?" John looked up at Sherlock, "If not, we can back out of this." He grabbed onto his hand, and smiled up at him.<p>

Sherlock nodded. "I have to know just as badly as you do." Looking to the others, he asked simply "Are the cameras on?" Having an affirmative reply, he then added "We should also test a number of variables—a surprise kiss from John would elicit a different reaction than one I initiate. A mutually-timed kiss would be different again. I'll start with mine." He wasn't ever going to get used to kissing, he thought as his lips gently caressed John's. It never felt quite right, but it never actually felt wrong, either. The kiss was characteristically short, enough to convey a message, but not enough to get carried away. It was one of very few kisses he had ever started since they became a couple, and he gave it now because he knew it might be the last he ever would. If Avery became permanent, John would never see him whole again, never again know him as he was when they first met.

Avery was silent, patient, watching. He showed no sign of emergence. Sherlock pulled away. "Still Sherlock," he whispered.

The scientists all muttered to each other, obviously this meant something, right?  
>"Sherlock, it's okay… I don't feel anything for him, trust me." Although John had never had a kiss as passionate as that, it disappointed him that Avery had to interject.<p>

"Okay, Mr Holmes. We're going to link you up to this machine now. It's all experimental, this one shows us, by hormones and blood pressure, which personality you're in. We can then see which hormones rise, and try to stop them from doing do, so we can stop Avery coming through. You'll need to take the same tests again, and again after the hormones have been controlled, which will be in around three days; because we'll have to prescribe medication. It won't affect your abilities at all."  
>John grabbed onto Sherlock's hand and smiled up at him.<br>"It's gonna be okay, trust me."

"Of course they'll affect my abilities," he snapped. "Neurochemistry is a delicate thing." But then he felt John's hand and calmed down. "Sorry. That—that wasn't right of me. I don't—my mind is everything to me, and the more it's changed, the more I feel like I've died." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "I assume there are other tests now I'm hooked up. I'm no doctor, but I think an FMRI when in each personality would prove invaluable." The detachment was helping him focus. If he thought of this as happening to someone else, it was easier. But wasn't that what started this whole mess?

"I'm ready."

Many tests were ran for about an hour, John had to kiss Sherlock and Avery, and sometimes Avery lashed out at John, knocking him against the wall. The doctors wanted to tie him down, but given the past experiences, John flatly refused.

"May I speak with Dr Watson and Mr Holmes alone please?" An old looking scientist asked everyone else to leave. "Now, Mr Holmes… We understand that your brain means everything to you, and when we said that hormone changes would not effect you, we were wrong on one account. You will have the same ability you used to, but… if we get rid of Avery, we also get rid of the part of you that is able to detach from emotions." Sherlock just blinked at him.  
>"Don't you understand, that if you do that, he will just be Avery? That's the emotional side of him. We're not making this any better!" John fumed at him, looking as if he wanted to rip his head from his neck.<br>"We're not sure what else we can do… the hormone will cause him to feel like everybody else, the overproduction of it has caused havoc. It is up to Mr. Holmes. I'll leave you to decide."  
>And with that, he walked out, leaving them to decide for themselves.<p>

Sherlock was having trouble coping with his choice. "So…I have to choose between being Avery some of the time and being Avery all of the time?" He literally could not decide which was worse, to be in a perpetual state of oblivion while his body went on, hurting people, probably killing, or to unexpectedly lash out and hurt people with no warning whatsoever. "John…I think you should choose. You'll have to live with it. Or not, if you want. We can put me in an institution or something. No!" he shouted suddenly, his face going hard and cold. "You can't end us! Not like this! Not ever!" Then his face softened. "It'll be hard on the both of us, but you know what Avery's done. I think it would be better for the both of us—don't say that, don't you dare say that, don't run away, you coward, I love him and I refuse to let go! If we did that." Seeing John's look, he paused. "Avery interrupted, didn't he?" Sherlock sat down. "Whatever we decide, it needs to be soon. I can't feel when he comes out or I'd suggest handcuffing me to the furniture at Baker Street when I felt him coming on, but I can't tell when he's waking up. I can only tell when he's been here by noticing time-jumps." He sat in silence for a moment, perfectly still. "What should we do? If—if Avery is here all the time, we can lock him up without me suffering. If it works like it has been, I'll be completely oblivious to what's going on. And at any rate, I don't know if imprisonment would be better or worse than these unpredictable bouts of violence." He swallowed. "He has killed three people, almost four." He looked at John, pleadingly. He didn't know what to do or where to go from here.

He faked a weak smile, an attempt to inject some light into the situation. "You could visit in prison or the psychiatric hospital or wherever they'd put him, maybe I'd have moments where I'm—" He choked off, the vision in his mind all too clear. John coming in on weekends or off-days, looking through the visitor's glass, eyes both terrified and hoping, desperate to see the man who couldn't love him instead of the killer who did. And once in a while, he'd be Sherlock, and they'd joke about their past cases and how Mycroft's diet was going. But then he'd be Avery again, spitting his love at John, not knowing that he was doing more harm to their relationship than good.

Sherlock put his head on John's shoulders, utterly exhausted. "What happened to me, John? Why did this all affect me so much more than it did you? And what in God's name are we going to do?"

"We're getting rid of him. This isn't the only way to get rid of him, I know it. I love you too much to let him win." he was choking with tears.

He ran out and slammed the door. "We need to do this, we need to stop him. He can't win, please." John was begging the doctor. "There has to be something else."

The doctor walked in again and sat down, white faced. "There is something. But.. it's highly dangerous. It has a 40% chance of working. Are you willing to try?"  
>"What does it do?" John muttered.<br>"It cancels out the other personality and leaves the person themselves. When it goes wrong.. it can wipe out both.."  
>John felt faint. "What do we do, Sherlock?"<p>

A primal scream came out of Sherlock's mouth and he ran to the door, shouting. "I am not going to let him die. I am not going to let either of us die." It was plain that he was Avery at the moment as he bashed his fists on the door. The security man came to restrain him, but Avery punched and threw him—he had not forgotten Sherlock's knowledge of Judo, and he was stronger than he looked in the first place. "If you think for one second I'm going to let you put either of them in jeopardy, you are sadly mistaken. _I will not let him die_."

This behaviour went on for ten solid minutes before he fell to the ground, Sherlock once again, but slightly whimpering once he caught sight of the security guard's injuries. He tried to take refuge in logic and numbers. "Forty per cent chance of success. The statistics…the statistics show that I'll probably lose everything." He sniffed. "I was losing everything anyway." He closed his eyes, and a tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. "Paralysed by doubt…we have to stop this. I can't keep doing this. Call Mycroft."

John called Mycroft for about an hour. Nothing. "He must be terribly busy…" John trailed off.  
>"We wouldn't be able to do the experiment today, if you wanted to. It would be on Saturday. Three days."<br>"Do we ask Mycroft? I can't get through!" John wailed, like a child. He looked at Sherlock who was also in shock. John flung his arms around him. "It's going to be okay." He sobbed. "I love you, I won't let them take you away if you don't want them to."

"No calls back. Mycroft must be really busy. What do we do?" John asked Sherlock when he'd calmed down a few hours later. He just wanted to be normal again, but it was obviously never going to happen.

"I need to see Mycroft one last time before we do whatever it is we are going to. As myself. It'll be the last he'll ever see of me, probably. No, never mind, it'll be better if he remembers me as I was." He waved his hand dismissively. There was another thought in his head, one that would end the problem forever, one that wouldn't put John through hell, but he knew that Avery would never let him even start to do it. Which was probably for the best. Maybe.

"I say we try the drugs and if they don't work, then we consider the other option." It could mean giving Avery a more permanent foothold, but at least there wasn't a 60% chance that he could lose both his minds. It was the rational, reasonable answer.

**Sherlock's blog:**

Right now, there are four options.

Go on the way I have been, hoping Avery won't be too much of a disruption, even though I know he will be, with his sudden tornadic rage and passion that I can neither predict nor stop

Submit to chemical therapy, which would leave my faculties of deduction and observation intact but would break down all ability to emotionally detach myself—Avery seems to be largely my emotions and thus could become dominant

Have an experimental procedure performed on me, designed to wipe out one personality, but only successful 40% of the time—failure is a complete mental wipe of both personalities

Die, either by my own hand, assisted suicide, or suicide-by-policeman; I am not anticipating this as a possibility as Avery would certainly intervene, however, I am including it in my list as it is a reasonable way to end Avery's murderous behaviour

The way I see it is that we'll try option two for a time and if that fails, option three becomes viable. If, for some reason, both Avery and I survive that particular procedure, option one is most likely. Depending on the severity of any outbursts, only then will death be a choice I will consider with any sincere intent. I have to stop him before he kills again. I think he enjoys it, even beyond the revenge factor. I cannot continue to risk the careers of those in the police force trying to protect me from legal retribution.

"A-are you _sure_?" John choked, mostly with shock. "It's dangerous…" he imagined what life would be like. Avery taking over every so often. "It wouldn't be so bad if you and him were together, because then you would be able to feel, but you'd be you, and you'd stop yourself from killing, and in effect, he'd be gone."  
>Sherlock was in deep thought. "So, do we just.. go back to Baker street and try it out?" He tapped him on the shoulder. Sherlock nodded.<p>

John got the prescription after he'd been signed out of the Hospital. He was shaking as he passed over the paper to the chemist. The chemist passed him the instructions to read whilst he waited for the prescription to go through.  
>"It says here about side effects. Well, it says: '<em>The user may: have a more regular sleep pattern, wish to eat more, be more sexually active, be agitated, dehydrate, spasm, vomit, andor faint. Any person taking this medication should __**AT ALL TIMES**__ be under supervision. Keep out of reach of user, as the user may try to overdose._' Blimey." John stared at the small piece of paper. "Are you _sure_? This seems to be a big change to your usual routine."  
>"Prescription for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" The chemist called out.<br>"If you're not sure, we can cancel it right now." John whispered to Sherlock, worried.

"Of course I'm not sure," he hissed. "But the best approach to something like this is to start out with the mildest treatment and then go for the more extreme ones. As a doctor, you should know that." He looked around, more out of a need to look elsewhere than looking for anything in particular. "But I find it strange that Avery's fine with this. It's worrying me." He looked back at John. "I estimate it'll take a week for the drugs to get into my system properly, and another two before we know if it's working. Nearly a month before we'll know." _But you and I both know it probably won't work. _ His look said it all.

He didn't take the bottle from John. He let him hold it in case Avery decided to protest. Now that there was a plan in place, he could think better. Once he wasn't fighting something with no weapons or strategy, he began to relax.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock rummaged in his closet and pulled out a small box. He handed it to John. "Stun gun. In case you need it. Just make sure there's no physical contact or you'll shock yourself." He handed John a holster for it as well. "I want this on you at all times. We have no idea whether this medication will placate Avery or bring him out more, and while I don't think he'd intentionally hurt you, his temper is something I want you to protect yourself from. Do not hesitate, even if you're not sure whether it's him or me. If you feel in any danger at all, this should be the first thing in your mind. And while I'm momentarily incapacitated, use these." He brandished a pair of handcuffs. "The bed should be heavy enough to prevent my moving around. I know you don't want to think about physically restraining me after what happened with Mor—you know. But you might have to. The furniture in the living area is all too light. If I'm in the hall, you may have to use the staircase." He made sure to get John's full attention and eye contact before continuing. "I trust you, John. I know you can do this." Reading the question in John's face, he said "And yes, they were Lestrade's. Don't ask."

He watched as John put on the police belt, and then went to make the tea he'd need to take his medicine. Once he did, he sat in the chair and waited for some sort of result. "Hide the medication. You read the label. Only you can administer it." He picked up his violin and began playing an unusually hesitant tune, improvising as usual.

I'm looking forward to seeing how this goes. –Avery

Somehow I thought you would. -SH

John raised his eyebrow. "Right. I assume you'll be loud and angry whilst you're tied up, so what do I tell Mrs. Hudson? She doesn't know about this, and you know she'll just.. assume. Should I say it's for a case or.." he felt his face flashing red. Mrs Hudson always assumed, which was terribly embarrassing. "And when did you manage to get them off Lestrade? He'll kill you." He laughed, although he didn't feel entirely sure about where they stood with Greg now.

John came back after Sherlock had spent about three hours playing the violin. He was sitting in the chair, calmly thinking. "Do you want to take it now?" John held out a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He was terrified that Avery was going to smack the pill from his hand any second.

"No, I've taken the first dose already; I figure I can handle that one at least." Sherlock put the violin down. "Something's working. I…um…I know we've kissed a lot today, but…well. It…um…" He reached over quite suddenly and planted a kiss on John's lips. But then the tender lip-brush gave way to a far more passionate one, and soon Sherlock, or rather Avery, was pushing John into his chair with his body, rarely-used muscles quivering. "You know you want it. You know you never get as much as you crave." He kept John from protesting by licking John's neck before gently biting it, something Sherlock would never have done. Avery got as far as pulling his shirt down to his elbows, having already unbuttoned John's with his teeth, before he stopped and pulled away. Sherlock stood up and put his shirt back on, buttoning quickly. "That was…not a good idea." He could see that John was frightened and it didn't take a consulting detective to piece together the clues as to why. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock was shaking, slightly. John placed a bowl of stew in front of him. "This should keep you going for a while." He smiled, "and by the way, do you want me to stop you, or not? I'm confused by this all. I'm not sure who's doing what." he sighed, slumping down onto the couch. He turned the television on, trying his best to distract Sherlock, or Avery, from anything that he wouldn't usually do.

"It's up to you. If you're not comfortable with anything, say something. I will listen. I don't know if Avery will." For once, Sherlock managed to watch the television without shouting at it. But only for fifteen minutes, after which he began pacing, muttering incessantly about the misdirection in the adverts, the ideal roof slope angle for a city residence, the smell of a dissected pig; nothing in particular. It was worse than when he'd tried to quit smoking cold-turkey.

He continued pacing and muttering, even occasionally jumping about, all night. Seven in the morning he awoke John by shaking him, his eyes manic. "John. It's almost time for the next dose." He blinked repeatedly and quickly, but not nearly as quickly as he spoke. There were traces of cream cheese leftovers on his mouth. "I think I've eaten quite a lot in the night. I don't remember. Probably Avery. He gets hungry? I, he, managed not to kill anyone, though, unless he destroyed the evidence before I came out of it. I wonder why I break through when I do? It seems to only happen when he gets out of control, but then why didn't I snap to during his first two kills? It doesn't make sense. He also seems to like cream cheese on blueberry muffins for some reason. Lots of cream cheese, going by the amount that's not in the refrigerator any more. He also may have filmed you sleeping since your video camera is not where it was. Either that or he filmed me-him-us. Sorry. I think I'd like to watch the video since I don't know how his mannerisms are different from mine and it could be a fascinating psychological study. Why aren't you up yet? I have to take the medicine at twelve-hour intervals and it's time. Get up."

"…Right," John groaned. He pulled the tablets from between the mattress when Sherlock wasn't looking.

"Here." He yawned, passing Sherlock the pill and a glass of water. He walked to the table to leave Mrs. Hudson a note.

_Mrs Hudson- I have to keep an eye on Sherlock, could you pick up more Milk, cream cheese and blueberry muffins when you go to tesco? Thanks!  
>John x<em>

"Right. Do you want anything?" He asked, planning to go back to bed. Sherlock was jumping around like a five year old. Sleeping was _not _going to happen.

"Milk, tea, eggs, cream, candy, cake, celery, anchovies, pizza, those little biscuits with the almond in, that's not what you meant, is it?" Manic was a bit of an understatement. "How are my vital signs? Blood pressure and pulse, high, no doubt." And it wasn't just Sherlock. Suddenly and for no apparent reason, Avery was in control and put his mouth to John's, forcefully, knocking him back in the bed and fiercely snogging, all the manic energy going toward one goal. He was working his clothes off now, and John was too shocked to keep Avery from taking off his. "Say you love me, I know you do, I know you love him, but I think you love me too, secretly you like the passion and the attention and all the things he can't give you. I know you want this shared body, I feel it in your tremors and see it in your eyes. You like his shining mind, his distance, his alien ethereal soul, but you need my emotion, my soul, my strength." There was very little between them—John's pants were the final barrier. "You know what you want, and it's what I want. You do love me, so don't keep—" Avery stopped, frozen with his hands inside John's pants in an effort to remove them. Sherlock was taking control again. He backed up and ran straight into the wall.

"Oh, God, oh, God." Sherlock shut his eyes. He was still wired. As manic as he still was, he put his pants and trousers back on in a hurry before running to his room and slamming the door. He started throwing things. "Why do you have to do this to me? Why must you take everything I have and ruin it? You're going to scare him away! He's the only friend I've ever had and you're going to run him off because you can't keep your pants on!" There was a loud crash as Sherlock threw his lamp against the wall and it shattered. Sherlock screamed into his pillow and just lay there in his bed, twitching madly.

John poked his head around the door. "Sherlock.. It's okay.." He went into the room. Everything was smashed, except his violin, his furniture and a picture of him and John. He sat on the bed. "Sherlock.. you haven't scared me away, I promise." He decided to lay down next to him, trying to get him to remove his face from the pillow. "He just wants me to say I love him, too. I don't." He sighed. John _did _wish for the things Avery said, but not from him, from Sherlock only. It made him feel sick to think that something inside Sherlock was dangerously obsessive and abusive towards him. "Look at me," He cupped his face, "It's okay, honest." Sherlock was sniffing and muttering, almost in whispers. "Come on, I think you need to sleep." John pulled the covers over them both, and hugged into Sherlock, who was still shaking with what he guessed was rage.

Sherlock was twitchy and held his hand out to John, almost detachedly examining how badly it was shaking. "I don't know if I can sleep—too wired. I've never been this wired in my life, and it's strange, it's not pleasant, not like the cocaine. I'm glad you're not going to leave. I know what he tried to do." He looked John straight in the eyes, his gaze oddly (for this moment) steady. "It's worse than what Moriarty did because this time, it really is my body." He gave a strangled sort of noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "And I've only been on the medicine for twelve hours; it's not even in my system long enough to know what the constant effects are going to be…"

**Avery's blog:**

it has only just occurred to me that he feels no pleasure

he does not permit himself drink, he eats very little food, even in his dreams he is cold and distant. the only times he is happy are his few brief moments with John, and even then it only registers slightly. he has never known ecstatic joy and he never will because he can't. he would not see the merits of a finely aged wine or the art in a subterranean cavern. his tongue does not burst with the glee of a well-prepared meal. his only pleasure derives from the pain of others.

and he says I am the one who is evil.

John: Shut up. He's not evil, _you_ are.

I feel. I love. I experience. I don't sit distantly while he is content merely to observe.

do not mistake me—I want nothing more than for the two of you to be happy. I will protect that happiness no matter the cost.

John: Why do you want to destroy him, though? You know that every time you come forward, he loses himself.

Avery: I don't want to destroy him. I want nothing more than to protect you both. the release is involuntary on both our parts. I cannot control when I am free and he sleeps. it is torture for me because, unlike him apparently, I am forced to watch what he does and how he cannot care for you. I am forced to share his experiences, knowing that he won't share mine. I do not fade to blackness as he does when subdominant. it hurts because I know he will not feel as I do.

John: He's much more than you.

Avery: I don't understand your hatred. I have no quarrel with either you or Sherlock. it is the people who hurt you who I spend my nights coming up with creative ways of killing.

John: let me see.

you almost beat me to death.

Avery: I lost my temper when you ran like a coward into drugs or did you forget that bit?

John: Stop trying to make yourself look better. You're an abusive prick.

Avery: Then teach me.

John: No. You don't deserve it.

"Sherlock, if it's you, I won't stop you, but it's him. I can deal with it, but I want you, not him. It's so difficult. If he kisses me, I feel unfaithful." John sighed, gazing at Sherlock. "I only want to be with you, and I mean it." He leaned over a kissed him softly. "I don't want to hurt you, it would really… I'd hate it." He squeezed Sherlock tighter. "I just want you to stay _you. _I'd love it if he pissed off… I'm not sure why he loves me anyway, me and him have shared nothing, except when I was trying to trigger you. We've had no experiences, like cases and holidays; I don't understand."

"I think he shares all my memories. When he's dominant, I see nothing, but I don't think the same is true of him." Sherlock was wearing out now. Still speaking quickly, but his eyes are beginning to droop. "I think he knows. And if he is the expression of my emotions magnified, he is attracted to you for the same reasons I am. Your strength. Your determination. Your simple honesty." He smiled, indicating that his next statement would be half-joking: "Your willingness to appreciate me." His speech started to slow down as he grew drowsy—a combination of stressful days and a wired night are catching up. He hadn't slept properly since he'd first seen the bloodied shirt from Avery's first kill.

He drifted off into the first dreamless sleep he'd had in years with a deep sigh and a furrowed brow.

John kissed him on the tip of the nose as he fell asleep. After a few minutes, he crept out of the bed to do some laundry.  
>It wasn't long before Avery was out of bed, and it was clear that Sherlock was still asleep, and he had taken over.<p>

"Go back to bed." John called in, thinking it was Sherlock, at first. He was slammed against the table.  
>"Avery, let him go. This isn't fair, how can this be happening…?" John was in utter shock, he had no idea that this was at all possible, and for once, Sherlock couldn't force himself forward to stop it.<p>

Avery smiled. The look was one of twisted glee. But it faded once he saw how upset John was and released him from the table. "Oh, he's just sleeping. Don't worry. He needs his rest, too. I'm going out for a smoke." He made it half a step before he felt the handcuff close on him. "So that's how you like it?" He sneered as he saw John's stubbornly defiant look. "Oh, yes, 'anyone taking this medication should be supervised at all times'. I remember. I share his gifts of observation and deduction." Avery, John attached, walked to the fireplace and took his cigarettes out. Pressing one between his lips and lighting it, he blew his first puff of smoke at John. "That's better." Sherlock/Avery hadn't taken his second dose of medicine yet, and Avery was sure John noticed. "What shall we do today, John? Watch telly? Play a game? Cuddle?" He put his hand inside John's. He knew John would probably pull away. "It breaks my heart to see that you don't see him in me. It does. I am everything he is, but with emotion and soul and passion and none of his inhibitions. I can love you utterly and completely. I would not be averse to escalating that relationship. He sees it as weakness, as a vice he can't give up. But no, love is strong. Love is powerful. And even if you don't love me back, know that I love you." There was fierce emotion in his eyes. He wasn't lying.

John just closed his eyes, almost as if he wished that Avery would disappear.  
>"Stop it." He almost begged. "I fell in love with him. If you <em>were<em> him, I would love you, but you're not. He doesn't remember anything you do, he blames himself." He felt his tears spilling. "I love him. When I kiss him, I want you to keep yourself away. I don't want to feel you forcing yourself on me. I want him to remember everything. We can't even.." He trailed off, almost with shame. "Just keep to yourself, where I'm concerned. Once you've done that, I can work on getting rid of you all together." He pulled his hand away, and left Avery handcuffed to the table. "Good luck getting out of that. They're tight and that table needs at least three people to move it. I'll come and check on you in a moment." And with that, he walked off, leaving him screaming and shouting angrily.

"Damn it, John! Do you think I want this? To be conjured into existence by rape and torture and then never to know when I will next be able to use my body—this body? I can't control when I'm dominant—neither can he, it just sort of happens! I watch, hour after hour, unable to move, unable to speak, like I'm in a vegetative state, while someone I love saunters off in my body and won't even let me tell anyone how much I hurt!" He knew that John was pretending not to listen. "I can't even do my Goddamn job!"

There was a knock on the door as Mrs. Hudson came upstairs. "Is everything alright, dears?"

Avery turned to look at her from his position where he sat on the floor. "Mrs. Hudson, please, John handcuffed me to the table. He's upset and won't let me apologize. Please go to him and tell him that I'm sorry and that I love him. Barring that, get me out of these handcuffs."

Mrs. Hudson could tell that something was wrong. "Are you alright, Sherlock, you're not acting like yourself."

Avery laughed coldly. "Of course," he said to himself. "She doesn't know." He smiled. "There's a very good explanation, but for the moment it's top-secret. It has to do with the Bird's Foot Trefoil case."

For a brief instant, he was Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson, thank goodness—tell John these words exactly: the medication. Now. The needle if he has to. Tell him now." Then, as Mrs. Hudson walked away, he put his free hand to his head as if he had a headache—he'd changed back. An uncontrolled shout of "No!" reverberated through the house as Avery tried to convince Mrs. Hudson to come back. But she'd already gone and was relaying the message to John.

"John, Sherlock needs you, quick. Has one of your… _games _gone wrong? He said medication or needle or something."  
>John ran upstairs. Avery was back. "One more thing, Avery. I'm not <em>yours."<em> He almost spat the words and he pushed the syringe down into his arm. Avery was screaming, begging. "Stop it." John shouted. Avery had one hand free and he pulled John's face in front of his.  
>"What are you doing?" John trembled with fear, knowing Avery was probably going to make a move on him, again.<p>

"I just want you to see the look in my eyes as I go one step closer to total madness. That medicine won't black me out. You know it won't." His face changed completely, back to Sherlock, but almost pleading. "John, if sedation becomes necessary—" He transformed again, the mania the new medication would bring already beginning, starting with an insane giggle. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, poor dear Mrs. Hudson, how confused you must be! Shall you tell her or shall I?" He began laughing again, but this time was cut off as he vomited, the small dinner he'd had the night before coming up all at once. "Sorry," he gasped. He writhed slightly, eyes rolling backwards a little. The medicine was not meant to be taken intravenously, and it was going into effect a bit too quickly. Not dangerously, because John was a doctor, but enough to be on the verge of it. "Oh, this whole mess. What a funny life I've had." Avery was jittery now as the mania started to take control. "What a strange, strange life."

John left him handcuffed as he cleaned him up. "Drink this." He handed him a glass of water. "You listen to me, Avery. You leave Sherlock alone. I don't love you, and I never will." He muttered in his face, menacingly, in a way he'd never spoke to Sherlock. Avery was rolling his eyes and laughing. "Come on, time for you to sleep." He unlocked him, and dragged him to his bedroom. "You're to stay here, do you understand?" John thought more clearly, he was going to escape. "In fact," he leaned over him, (he was lying down, he was bound to get the wrong idea) and cuffed him to the bed. "You can't move now." He put him in the recovery position so he wouldn't choke if he vomited. "And when Sherlock comes back, you're to stay inside, that clear?" He whispered.

"I love it when you get all military." He smiled, clearly turned on. He grabbed John's waist with his legs. "Hello sexy." But, after making sure John understood his physical reaction, he soon frowned once again. "Haven't you heard a fu—" He spasmed before he could complete the expletive and the pain cut him off. Yet another side effect, yet another box ticked. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you? _I can't control the change any more than he can._ We are when we are. It's not a question of choice."

John left, and Avery taunted him with reminders that he was meant to be under supervision at all times. And then he began to sing loudly.

"Mental wounds not healing  
>Who and what's to blame?<br>I'm going off the rails of a crazy train!"

Suddenly the sound was cut off as Avery's whole back spasmed and he practically screamed in pain. "For God's sake, John!" It was plainly not Avery who spoke. But the next thing out of their shared mouth—a list of expletives long enough to make even some of John's soldier friends cringe—certainly was.

John shouted in Avery's face. "You can do it, I know you can." and he walked out.

He was singing loudly and screaming, then Sherlock shouted out.

John ran in, he was screaming and fitting. "Sherlock, Sherlock! look at me, please." He held his face. "Come on, look at me." He sat on top of him, to keep his legs still. "Come on, shh calm down." Sherlock stilled, breathing loudly. "It's okay, I'm here." He kissed him, to show he wasn't going to leave. "Do you feel a change coming on? Is it safe to unlock them?" He nodded at the cuffs, shakily.

Avery's swearing fit had subsided, as had his mind, for now. Sherlock was himself, his terrified self. "I never feel the changes happening. That's what makes them so dangerous." He retched. "Maybe an intravenous delivery wasn't the best of plans. But at least we're sticking to the medicine regimen." He felt feverish. "In the bathroom, in the top drawer, there are sedatives. They'll knock me or him or whatever completely out for nine hours or so. I take it by the fact that I'm handcuffed to the bed that Avery did something or tried to. If you have to, use—" Then Sherlock's time was up and the magnificent face hardened once more. "This medicine. It's—I don't like it," Avery finished lamely. He moaned as his abdomen spasmed, causing him to try to curl into a ball, but John's presence prevented it. "Damned nicotine interaction, we should have known."

"You and him are only a 'we' in a bodily sense." John spat, still sitting on his legs so he couldn't move at all. "And frankly, Avery, I don't give a fuck if you like it or not. You will take it and I'll make sure of it." He was saying it menecingly again, he felt as if his rage was about to rip through his chest. "You'll be gone, soon enough." Avery was protesting, loudly. "And as for the stuff you said before, about me wanting you.. It's not like that at all. You've not shared the things me and Sherlock have. You will never know."

The thing about having the emotions Sherlock didn't was that Avery's heart was breaking. One of the two men Avery loved more than anything in the universe was treating him like an abomination. Of course, in Avery's mind, this was completely wrong. He was their guardian angel. He protected them. He'd killed three of the people who had been involved in their rape and torture. If that wasn't love, what was? "There is nothing I love more than yourself and Sherlock. To know that it's not reciprocated...I'm sure you know the feeling." He shook, trying to ignore the aftershocks of the violent spasming. "I was born out of death and fear and memories most people would repress. I began the moment Sherlock thought about how easy it would have been just to go to the light during those three minutes he was dead. All he wanted was to see you as you were again instead of seeing Moran. He couldn't before that death. I took those memories and that hate and fear and became what I am. To protect him. To keep him from going into the black abyss. Because you can only save him from so much. I can save him from so much more. He needs us both." He was searching John's face for understanding, desperately hoping John would accept him as a part of life.

John looked down at him. He couldn't help but see the fear that Sherlock's face usually showed. Avery was begging for acceptance, for love. John reached down and cupped his face. "I know you want to stay, it's as horrid for you as it is for him. But you must understand that I loved him f- I love him. I can't watch him fade, just because _you _love me… I know you have the things he can't give, but he can learn, in time, I know it." John was choking on his tears. "Please, don't hate me for it, I just want him safe; I want him to remember the things we had, the things we _will _have.."

The hot liquid of tender emotion rolled down Avery's face. "I know how you feel. So I've recorded myself. He wants to see me. He doesn't know me. He can't ever know me without help—your help. And I could never hate you. No matter what. Unless, of course, you break his heart, and then you'll have something to answer for." It was meant as a joke, but given Avery's past history, it didn't come off as one. "I can't change what I am and I don't want to." He put his free hand to John's cheek tenderly. "Will you stay with me while I sleep, even if it is only eight in the morning?"

John felt so guilty. There was a part of him that wanted Sherlock to act like Avery (bar murder). He moved off his legs, and lay next to him. "Yeah, I will." He sighed. "I'd unlock you, but you could run off, and it's far too dangerous… I'll stay here." He curled up next to him. He still had _some _kindness in his eyes, he smiled.  
>"Have a nice sleep, Avery." And he fell asleep, hoping that Sherlock would be there when he woke up.<p>

"Thank you. I love you," he said before drifting off.

Avery dreamed of Sherlock. They were in Baskerville, in one of the laboratories. Avery was locked in the cage. So was Sherlock. John stood outside the cage, white coat over his jumper, syringe in hand. "We don't know what this will do to you, but we're going to try it anyway." He injected Avery with a clearish pink liquid and it was like fire in the blood. He felt like he was burning.

Sherlock dreamed of Avery. They were in Baskerville, in one of the laboratories. Sherlock was locked in the cage. So was Avery. John stood outside the cage, white coat over his jumper, syringe in hand. "We don't know what this will do to you, but we're going to try it anyway." He injected Sherlock with a clearish blue liquid and it was like his blood had turned to liquid nitrogen. He felt like he was frozen from the inside out.

A voice slithered out of the stark whiteness beyond the cages as both Sherlock and Avery suffered. "Like fire and ice, Doctor Watson." It was Moriarty. Avery flung himself in spitting rage toward the bars, screaming obscenities and threats. Sherlock sat, fighting the urge to cower, too frightened to say anything. But the worst was yet to come as Moriarty grinned and rested his arm on John's shoulder. "I'd say that went pretty well, wouldn't you?" John morphed into Moran-John, the John who wasn't a John at all but was the twisted expression of Moriarty's sense of cruel humour. "I think you know what to do," said Moran, his eyes like the black pits of Hell. "Yes, I do," said Moran-John with an evil leer and both Sherlock and Avery knew what was coming.

They woke up, two minds' screams expressed through one mouth and one set of near-shredding vocal chords. Neither mind was present for a fleeting moment-they both wanted to flee. So the body that housed both Sherlock and Avery sat staring in wide-eyed primal horror, no sentient mind to control it for a full five minutes. Then he blinked.

**Sherlock's blog:**

What do you do when your nightmares haunt both your psyches? Both minds fear the same thing, and both minds suffer the nightmare at once, and neither knows which to assert itself when the body wakes because both are too terrified to be able to think?

And you sit there for a few moments, blank but fighting.

How am I supposed to survive the three weeks of this that will be necessary to figure out if this treatment is working?

"What's wrong?" John panicked, as if something bad had happened to him. "Do you want me to unlock you, is that it?" Sherlock, or Avery, (he couldn't tell who it was right now) was screaming and fighting to get out. John unlocked the cuffs and whoever it was looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but near John. "What's happened, please tell me…" John felt sick, it seemed as if Avery and Sherlock hated him, because he got up and ran to his room, slamming the door, whailing loudly.

The shared body howled for a moment longer before the shout trailed off. Someone had finally taken control. Sherlock. He remembered his nightmare, remembered sharing it with Avery. He stood up and rubbed his wrist—during his uncontrolled panic, he'd struggled against the handcuffs and bruised himself. He felt feverish, but fought to tell himself it was only an effect of the medication and that his nightmare hadn't been real. The medicine was working. He was unable to remain detached.

As rapidly as he'd run to his room, he ran back to John. "I'm sorry, John, I had a horrible nightmare. Mor—" He found himself unable to say the name, either of the names. "Them. But you were there, but he was you and you were experimenting. On me. On Avery. On us, it doesn't matter, separately." He had yet to get more than three hours of sleep since this whole thing started, and it was plainly taking its toll. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. "Why did I dream that? Why?" He swayed on his feet and blacked out for an instant. Fortunately John caught him before he hit the ground.

"How is it so much worse for me than it was on Uncle Thom?" Sherlock was more talking to himself than anything, out of confusion and panic. "He had five people, but he seemed…calm. He could sleep without any of this—this fear." His eyes were distant, barely registering his surroundings, staring only at the ceiling. He turned his gaze to John as he lay in his lap on the floor. He reached out and grabbed him, like a terrified child. "Tell me you can fix this, John. Please. Tell me you'll help me through this." He was crying.

**Sherlock's blog:**

I am not used to feeling like this. I don't like it. I don't want it.

The doctors were right—this medication is increasing my emotions. I can't think objectively anymore, not like I used to. I don't know what it's doing to Avery.

Every single moment I'm awake, every second I am who I was born (and those seconds are becoming more and more rare), it's paralyzing fear at what he might have done in his rage or grief or a poorly-expressed love.

Hopefully this will be over soon.

"I will help you through, and I'll do everything in my power to stop this…" John stammered. This wasn't going to work. Sherlock was going to go insane. "Do you want to stop taking them?" He blurted. "I think it might be better. I'm so worried." He moved up to the bed, dragging Sherlock with him. "We need to stay here… I don't think we should move you around too much." Sherlock's face changed, Avery had something to say.

"I like the way you care for him. It's sweet." He had that twisted yearning in his eyes. "It's so boring in here. I think I'll order flowers. But first let's watch the telly." Avery grabbed the remote and turned on the news.

He tilted his head almost hungrily. "There are three things I need right now, and I'll settle for two of them. A cigarette, a shag, or another of Moriarty's underlings dead by my hand. Your choice, John."

Before John could even muster up an answer, the announcer said they were going to breaking news. It was a press conference on the Bird's Foot Trefoil murders—Avery's murders.

Reporter: "Is it true you have no leads?"

Lestrade: "We have no concrete leads, no." (Avery could tell he was nervous at being caught in a lie.)

Reporter: "What are you doing to help find this killer?"

Lestrade: "We have our best people on the case."

Reporter: "Have you consulted Sherlock Holmes, the Internet sensation detective?"

Lestrade: "Yes, and he's working on it."

Reporter: "And you say you have come up with absolutely nothing? I understand there was a cigarette butt left at the scene. Can't you get DNA evidence off it?"

Lestrade: "We're doing our best. It's not like it is on television! Now I think that's all the questions we have time for. Thank you."

A flurry of voices followed Lestrade as he left the podium. The news anchors continued their summary of the case. Avery smiled sickly. "He's so loyal for nothing." He turned back to John. "Now, how about that choice?" He was physically quivering, all the desires Sherlock never had visible in his body language.

"You can have a cigarette, and nothing more. You know how much I hate it when you kill, I don't want you to, but I love Sherlock, and I'd never be unfaithful to him." John had a nagging voice in his head telling him to go ahead, but that voice was one he'd learned to ignore. Moriarty. _Go on, you need it._

"You know how I feel about him." John whispered, unable to get the words out.

Avery rolled his eyes as he took his cigarette. "Yes, I do, and you keep repeating it. I feel the same way. Trust me, I'd shag him if I could." He lit the cigarette and puffed for a few minutes, luxuriously letting out poisonous clouds from his lungs. He didn't care that he'd ruined Sherlock's recently hard-earned smokeless freedom—he really needed that smoke. "At least buy me a sketchbook and pencils so I have something to do all day instead of just sitting here. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will be a willing babysitter." Avery sighed with pleasure as the nicotine built up in his system. He was still hyperactively fidgety, but now he seemed calmer.

"I have." John mocked him, cruelly. "I'll text her, I don't trust you to stay here."

He pulled out his phone.

To Mrs Hudson

Could you pick up a sketchpad and some pencils? Sherlock needs it and I'm not happy about leaving him. Sorry to bother you. -JW

FromJohn Watson

"There." He smiled. "That's your last cigarette, by the way. I got rid of the rest, it doesn't react well." Avery was rolling his eyes and mocking John in silly voices.

"Shut up, Avery. You can't love me at all if you don't respect me. At least Sherlock does." He sat down next to him on the bed. "I don't know what you're gaining from existence, really." He blinked. "Sorry, that was harsh. I don't know why you need to kill for me and Sherlock when we don't want you to."

_You could have him right now, and you know it_. John stammered. "For fucks sake. You're not the only one with issues. I have voices in my head that tell me to do things that would ruin my whole life." He put his head in his hands and groaned. "I'm sorry that I can't give you what you want, but what would you do if somebody asked you to cheat on the person you loved?"

Avery's eyes went wide with concern. "Voices? What kind of voices?" He switched off the telly. "Please, John, you have to tell me. If nothing else, I need to know exactly what." He put his hand on John's thigh, lovingly, and did his absolute best to restrain himself from anything more intimate. "I care about you. If you're having problems, I need to know." He was plainly worried, his face showing more concern for another living thing than Sherlock ever had in his entire life. "I can't watch you go mad. Tell me what is going on."

"Jim's voice. He tells me how vile, useless, worthless, scummy and low I am. He tells me to kiss you when I love Sherlock, he is inside my head, and even if you kill him, he'll be there." John was breaking down into tears. He lent his head on Avery's shoulder. "I guess it's to be expected, I wasn't going to go through.. that, and come out normal." He began to sob loudly, "I wish Sherlock was here. If he knew then he wouldn't go and kill Jim for it.. please don't.."

Avery muttered a low curse before extending his arms to John and embracing him. "Shh, it'll be alright. Just sleep now and dream of peaceful things, my John, my ever-faithful John." John only had an instant to wonder what Avery had meant by sleep before the drugs kicked in. Irene Adler's private recipe. Avery held on to John, whispering comfortingly in a way he knew Sherlock never would until John lost consciousness.

By the time John woke up, it was nighttime. Avery was still holding him in that tender embrace. "Hello," he whispered as he saw John's eyelids flutter open. Avery smiled warmly. He'd missed his third dose of medicine and had been left free all day. "Mrs. Hudson brought the sketchbook. I haven't started anything yet. I couldn't leave you except for the obvious reasons." He ran his hands through John's hair and, in a reversal of the normal gesture, kissed John on the nose. "I'm sorry I drugged you. But you've been so stressed. You needed to relax. Forgive the methods, knowing that the intent was pure."

"Don't do that again.." He moaned, sleepily. "Do you feel better now?" He looked up, wondering if Sherlock was going to come back. "Where's.. Sherlock?" He said, cautiously. "I know it upsets you when I go on about him, but I'm concerned." He got up and went out of the room, pulling the meds from where he was hiding them, and returned to the room. "Take one of these, please." He almost begged. Avery sniffed at him in refusal. "What do I have to do to make you take one? I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want? I'll buy you more muffins? I'll even buy you more stuff to draw with, please.."

Avery smiled almost lucidly. "For now, all I ask is that you consider me the next time I want to be with you." Slowly he took the pill from John's hand and frowned. "This won't make him come back out. I don't think it will work except to stimulate the body and make me want you more. You read the side effects." He smirked a little. "But I'll take it, if it makes you feel better." He put it in his mouth and dry-swallowed, wincing. "Nasty." He shrugged. "I don't know where Sherlock is. He's slept all day. He didn't even wake up when you were out. I don't know why." Avery looked concerned, too. "I think he just needs his rest." He took John by the hand. "I want to show you something."

In the living room, Avery had taken his calling-card flowers, the Bird's Foot Trefoil, and put small handfuls into the eye sockets of Sherlock's mantle-skull. He smiled sheepishly, like a six-year-old trying to share something with the person he had a secret crush on. "Thought you'd like it a little brighter in here." He reached in for a gentle nose-kiss before picking up the violin. Avery's tune was entirely different from Sherlock's. While Sherlock's songs were unmistakably melancholy, Avery's were more spirited, more like a bird in flight than Sherlock's compositions which spoke of a loner in a crowd.

The music played on for another hour, the clock ticking over to midnight just as the bow faltered on the strings, stuttering slightly. He turned around, a look of confusion on his face. "John?"

John had slipped into Sherlock's bed. He wanted to remember when they both used to lay there together, fearing that he would never experience it again. He played it like he was asleep, so Avery didn't get the wrong idea. These days, John was always tired. He could feel himself slipping into depression, and no matter how much Avery tried, he felt alone. The door clicked open. The covers were lifted and he slipped under them, sliding his arm over John. John shivered, wanting contact more than ever, but he was never sure who it was.

"John," Sherlock said slowly. "Please don't pretend to be asleep because you're scared. I know you're not. I need you to answer some questions for me." Sherlock swallowed, the mania caused by the drugs starting. He was shaking slightly, not entirely from fear. "How long was I…absent? It has to have been at least seventeen hours. Please tell me it wasn't more than a day. I'm upset enough between this drug and not knowing." He started speaking more quickly. "I also need you to start keeping a diary of Avery's movements and the transitions. It will help to figure out if this is working. Three long weeks of Hell to find out if this is a cure. Unless you see definite signs of things getting worse. But I suppose Avery's presence for more than twelve solid hours is a sign of things getting worse."

His cold fingers met John's. "I need you, John, more than ever. I'm lost and confused and terrified. I've become something I've been frightened of since my childhood." Sherlock was fighting sobs now. "I don't know what to do. Help me."

John flipped around and kissed Sherlock. "I've missed you. He's been manic, he's been mental, I swear to god, he has to go.. He knocked me out!" John babbled on for what seemed like minutes, until he calmed down. "I've missed you, so much. I will help you, I promise." He curled up, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. "I don't want you to go, again. I hate it."

That triggered the sobs Sherlock was trying to hold back. "I don't want to go, either, I never want to, it's like being knocked unconscious but worse because you know you're doing things you don't want to." He lay in the bed crying for the rest of the night, sometimes as silent wriggling Sherlock, sometimes as chatty twitchy Avery, but always heartbroken and shaking and refusing to leave John's side, even though he felt as though his body was going to explode with the manic energy the drug provided.

When daylight came, Sherlock was himself. He felt he needed to apologize, so he woke John up with a full breakfast-in-bed. "I'm sorry, John, for the pain Avery and I are causing you."

John's phone chimed—a text was incoming.

Damn it, John, I thought you were keeping an eye on him!

Lestrade

"What is it?"

"He's done it again. He lied to me. It's Greg… This is all because I wouldn't have sex with him." John sobbed, feeling helpless. "What do I do?" John was panicking, short heavy breaths. Sherlock was trying to calm him, but nothing worked. _Oh great, panic attacks_. "Help /gasp/ me." He begged, crying against Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders. "John, focus. Focus on me, focus on us, focus on that first day we met in Bart's when I told you as much about yourself as you knew." He himself was being overwhelmed with panic. "Think of the good things. Think of the time I stole an ashtray for you and the time we chased a cab on foot. Breathe. Concentrate on that if nothing elllllllugh…" The increase in blood pressure was being amplified by the drugs and Sherlock felt very faint. "Concen…conc…c…" His vision swam and he was finding it hard to breathe. He knew his heart had been stressed since his near-fatal overdose, and even worse because of the drugs, but right now, John was what mattered. To hell with his own breathing. "Y…you survived a war. You survived Mmmmoriarty. You're strong, John, you can fight this. My soldier. My John. I need you, John, I need you by my side, as strong and as steady and as loyal as you've always been." His eyes were crossing, but he had to focus. He swallowed the rising vomit with a wince. "Don't you give up."

"Don't you dare ever ever give up," Avery was shouting. "I love you and I couldn't live if anything happened to you. Think. Focus. Brrr—" The shared body couldn't get enough air to his head, his heart beating too fast to be breathing in a way that allowed speech, and he passed out on top of John.

He was breathing, but it was shallow. John moved him into the recovery position and sat there, for an hour. He stirred occasionally, saying 'help' or 'don't go', and John did as he was told. "Wake up, please?" John was lying next to him, his nose against his, begging for him to wake up. "Please, for me?" He shook him a little, there was a gasp and a mutter, and then he was awake. He lay there staring into John's eyes for minutes, and John wasn't sure who it was.

"Don't let me go," Sherlock whimpered. His face looked more careworn than it had of late. It was as though Sherlock's soul was ten times older than his body. He hadn't slept properly, a deep restful sleep, since Moriarty had kidnapped John those horrible weeks ago. "This isn't working, this really isn't working, I can't sleep, and when my mind does, Avery takes control and my body _never rests. _He's coming more and more and I can't fight it…watch a film with me. Please." He looked almost as if he were resigned to the fact that he was on the verge of death, when in fact, he wasn't. "And then you need to make the appointment for Saturday." He didn't care that the odds were that he'd end up an empty shell—he just wanted Avery gone.

Avery, though, had other ideas. "No!" But that was all he could say as Sherlock slipped into control again. "Please, John." Realizing that John would look for other alternatives first, he fished for another idea. "Or you could institutionalize me or restrain me with straitjackets and a leash or keep me only half-awake with drugs until we find out if this medication will work once it's been in my system for longer, but I can't go on, seeing how much you hurt, seeing how little I can do. I just need to know Avery won't be able to hurt you."

"I could lock-down the flat? I can stock up on essentials and he won't get out. I can deal with him, it's fine." He got up to placed a film into Sherlock's DVD player. He never used it. "What do you want to watch?" He just shrugged back, and John settled for his own Harry Potter. He climbed back in bed with Sherlock and waited. He waited to see if he would change, but he didn't. John enjoyed being so close to him, at every opportunity he'd tell him how much he missed him when he was gone, or how he loved him. He never got the response Avery said he wanted, but that was okay. Sherlock was himself, for now, and that's all that mattered. "I wish you could stay." John said, sadly, as if he was going on a long holiday.

Sherlock stared at the film, but wasn't paying too much attention (except when he shouted that it was obvious that there was something up with Professor Quirrell). They'd started at the beginning of the series due to Sherlock's complete ignorance of it. He managed to stay as himself throughout the film, somehow, jittery from the medicine, and oddly emotional (though still not as emotional as Avery would have been), particularly when they said that love was the strongest form of magic. He was constantly thinking about what to do about Avery.

"I want to see the rest," he said once the credits had finished rolling. "Do you have them all?" He looked hopeful. It was an escape that he needed. His mind wasn't completely absorbed with his own problem, and he was enjoying the films, despite his earlier trepidation.

"Yeah.." John was surprised. Sherlock never took interest in anything John liked. "I'll go and get them." He ran into his room, and picked them up off the shelf. When he returned to the room, Sherlock was plumping up the pillows where John had been lying. John, again, put the DVD in a settled into the bed. He knew Sherlock was just trying to distract himself. "Are you sure you'd rather not play your violin or something to distract yourself?" He smiled, Sherlock would probably get bored of the film eventually, he always did.

"No, this is better. The violin only helps me think, and I don't need that right now." He watched, oddly almost happy. He had the person about whom he cared most sharing peaceful moments with him again, and nothing hurt.

Nothing, at least, until Voldemort's possession of Ginny was revealed. That was like a knife, painful to the point where Sherlock turned onto his side, facing John, and shut his eyes, his hands to his head, trying to deal with the returning fear of having a killer inside him.

John paused the film. He held Sherlock, and told him how it was going to be okay. "I'll do everything I can, because you're that important." He smiled at him, warmly. "We're going to be okay, we'll figure something out." He kissed him, softly. "I've missed your kisses, it sounds pathetic, but Avery forces it onto me." He sighed. "I hope he's sleeping."

"I think he is, but I can never tell." Sherlock looked like a lost child, in fact, much like Ginny had. To make it worse, his body was weak from constant jitters from the medicine coupled with the lack of sleep from the mania. He found himself wanting a teddy bear to hold. John was close enough, and he wrapped his arms around him and he just lay for a few minutes.

His hips began to press into John's with obvious sexual intent. "Whoops, bad timing," came a voice that wasn't Sherlock any more. "Sorry about that." The embrace was stronger now that Avery was in control—more assured of himself. He nuzzled John's neck, kissing it with barely-restrained passion. "I know how you feel about us, but abstinence is overrated." His fingers were running through John's hair, Avery's arms under John's and up his back. "I need it. He's been so hidden all of his life, and you unlocked it and I can't get enough of it." He was starting to lose self-control (not that he'd tried too hard in the first place)—his free leg crawling slowly up John's. He started to almost gurgle with pleasure.

To Harry Watson:

What do you do when there's someone you need but he won't look at you twice except with hate? -Avery

Also, how do I let your brother know that it really, really hurts my feelings when he won't shag me? -Avery

(Harry) Probably bugger off, because if they hate you then you've done something wrong.

(Harry) What the - ? Who the hell is this Avery?

I only have his best interests at heart. I'm protecting him. He can't see that. –Avery

You can also find my blog at birds-foot-trefoil. I won't deny that there may be some connection with those murders. You may also find the answers to some of your questions there. –Avery

(Harry) I highly doubt that my brother would hate someone who truly cared for him that much. Wait… your blog… Sherlock, what the hell are you going on about? Why are you calling yourself Avery?

I am that which Sherlock Holmes can never be. John never told you the full details about what happened Christmas, did he? Suffice it to say that near-death ended in life. –Avery

"W-what are you doing?" John stammered, mostly out of embarrassment. Avery was grinding into him, making John feel terrible. "This isn't fair." He tried to push him off, but he wasn't going to move. "Sherlock wanted me to defend myself." Avery forced his mouth on him. He was struggling to breathe, and was fighting the impulse to go along with it. "Stop it!" He cried, but no, he carried on.

"Don't scream, John. Don't resist. That'll only hurt us both." Avery was too strong, physically, despite the weakness. He was getting closer and closer to the thing he wanted, pulling the clothes from John's body. Then John headbutted him and it knocked him back to being Sherlock.

Sherlock staggered backwards, trying to flee, but fell off the bed and knocked himself in the head with the corner of the table. He blinked, vision starry. He couldn't think about what he'd just done. The evidence was in place that Avery had tried to—

No, he couldn't do this. He ran to the bathroom and got the sedatives he'd gotten from Irene. He ran back to John and put the small syringes in his hands. "Use these. You're not listening to me. Shock him or knock him out or whatever, just _do not let him do that again!_" But then his face became lustful again, Avery again. "Spoilsport," he muttered. He was about to charge John again when the doorbell rang. He stared at John, daring him to move.

"Yoohoo," came a little peep at the door. Mrs. Hudson stared at the pair of them. "Molly Hooper's at the door, she heard you were ill and wants to see you." Avery stood, breathing hard as Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs.

**Sherlock's blog:**

I can't even get through a ruddy song without blanking into Avery.

Without my work, without my music, what am I? John's drifting away. I can feel it. He's never sure if it's Avery or I who is looking at him and I think he might leave.

I watched it happen to Uncle Thom. I only met him once, when I was four, but I can still remember as he changed from Thom the haggard war veteran to Patrick the kindly uncle to paranoid Marcus, before the one whose name I never learned but always sang instead of speaking…like Ophelia. And when he turned into Michael, he hurt me, saying he hated my mother for loving father instead of him. Aunt Sarah came to dinners after that, but I never saw my uncle again. And I don't think she did, either.

To make it worse, Mycroft isn't answering his phone, either his texts or his calls, so either he doesn't know what's going on or he's abandoned me. He's always dropped work when something serious is going on with me, but not this time. Why? Is he too frightened of what I've become? If he and John could take turns staying with me while the other got some air, it wouldn't hurt as much. I'd know that they wouldn't be trapped like I have to be. But not even my own brother wants to associate with me. I don't blame him, to be honest. I wouldn't want my own company right now either.

Maybe it's the medicine talking. It makes me anxious, frightened, manic, and emotional. I said neurochemistry was a delicate thing and my body has slept so little since this started. Maybe I should start taking sleeping pills, even though I've had a bad experience with them before.

I see the look in John's eyes when he sees me. Doubt. Fear. The urge to run. It's a miracle he's stayed this long, after what Avery's done and tried to do. It's probably only a matter of time before he can't take it any longer.

What can you do when the one thing you have left is so close to leaving you?

(Harry) Stop. Talking. In. Riddles. I'm bloody annoyed, alright? It's bad enough that I miss every single thing that happens to my brother, but then when people like you turn up and just stir things up a bit more, it becomes more than I can handle. Just get to the point already, and maybe I'll consider listening to you properly.

To Harry Watson:

Dissociative identity disorder caused by the rape, torture, and near-death experiences inflicted by Jim Moriarty. Sherlock's brilliant mind couldn't cope with the trauma and thus invented me. Unlike him, I can feel. I love John and Sherlock. I would kill to keep them safe. I hate Moriarty with a burning passion. I feel anger and fear and pain and pleasure, things Sherlock can never know. Is that to the point enough? -Avery

(Harry) Yes, very. It doesn't mean I have to like it. Where is my brother now? Is he safe?

He is more safe from outside attacks than he has ever been in his life. –Avery

(Harry) But that doesn't keep him completely safe. What about attacks from somewhere, or should I mention someone, that's not outside?

That hurts. I lost my temper just once because he did something stupid and nearly died and now everyone is holding it against me. I'm on medication. It's unlikely to happen again. –Avery

I see from my text history that Avery's contacted you. Sorry you got dragged into this mess. –SH

(Harry) What. Did. You. Do?

He tried to run away by taking Sherlock's cocaine, didn't know what he was doing, and nearly overdosed. I lost my temper and hit him. A few times. He ended up in hospital. I've never done anything I regret more. –Avery

(Harry) You bastard. You sick fuck.

(Harry) Sherlock, thank god. Please tell me that what he said wasn't true.

I had to look through my text history to see what he said. It is true. All of it. I am taking something, though, but it'll be a while before we know if it's working. –SH

John: Right that's it, he's for it.

Harry: Is there anything I can do to help? Anything at all, even just the smallest thing?

John: Not really, there's nothing I can do either, not right now. I have to wait 'til next week to go back to the hospital with Sherlock.

Harry: Well just know that if there is ever anything you can think of, I'm right here. You two are my only priorities.

John: Thank you, Harry. I'll let you know if anything gets worse.

Harry: I hope that it doesn't. With all my heart.

From Harry's blog:

Why on Earth am I John's sister? Was it nature's idea of some kind of joke? I do not have the strength of will to be trusted with looking out for him. He needs someone much more of sound mind than me, and also probably someone who doesn't drink so much. I'm so sorry I'm never there for you, John.

John: Don't apologize, dearest. I don't want you hurt by this.

Harry: John, are you kidding me? _You_ were hurt. That's my only concern. And of course, for Sherlock too, because I know that you love him.

John: Avery just wants to have sex with me, really. I'm not a cheating bastard, and to be honest, he beat me to death. It's only because of Sherlock that I'm here.

Harry: I'm so so sorry. I'm glad you have Sherlock with you. He's much more of a help than I am. But I'm stronger now. I can help too.

"Not now, sorry, Mrs. Hudson." John slammed the door. "Do you want to fight about this, Avery? I have told you. I love Sherlock, not you. I'm sorry. If I was going to have sex with somebody, it'd be him." He could feel his anger rising. "I love _him._ Clear?" He pushed him onto the bed, cuffing him. "This is the last time I'll warn you before knocking you out with my bare hands." He snarled at him. "I'm going to wash the dishes. You're staying put." and he stormed out of the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

Avery sat for a moment, both aroused at John's sudden military determination and heartbroken. This must be how John had felt since he had realized his love for Sherlock. Alone. Unworthy. Desperate to be appreciated. He sat, slowly descending into a sobbing fit, before snapping into Sherlock for one tiny instant, during which he sent a text to John.

Hussey?  
>SH<p>

But then Avery was sobbing on the bed again. "Why does everyone hate me?" The words were practically a scream. "I need to survive! I need love! I need to know that I'm worth something! I need…" The words became indistinguishable as manic shouting ensued, Avery pulling on the handcuffs in an attempt to break them. Which he did at great cost to the health of his wrist.

He opened the door, tears streaming down his face, eyes red and puffy. "Fine then, see how you like it on your own." He ran straight for the door before John could stop him, and he was out in the world again.

John immediately pulled out his phone. He had one text from Sherlock. Avery had obviously managed to unlocked his cuffs. He texted Sherlock's phone.

Avery, come back now. We can talk about it, promise. I won't have a go at you. -JW.

He paced back and should he do? He needed him back, so everything was safe. So he was safe. So Sherlock was.

He slumped onto the couch and watched TV.

It had been about an hour. Nothing.

Come back, I miss you. -JW.

He felt a lump in his throat. He _did_ miss him. But most of all, he wanted Sherlock safe.

Two more hours passed before Avery returned, and not by choice. Lestrade had him handcuffed and it was plain that nonlethal weapons had been used on him.

"Caught him waiting in the queue at Heathrow, trying to get some tickets to India, of all places." Lestrade took a second set of handcuffs and cuffed him to the dining table. "Wouldn't have found him if his brother hadn't been keeping an eye out."

Avery moaned. The weapons Lestrade had used to subdue him with weren't deadly, but they certainly hurt. Lestrade spoke quietly to John. "It's getting harder and harder to keep the murders unsolved without doing anything that could get me sent to prison. Hell, if they find out what I've done so far, I'll probably lose my job." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "He needs help, John."

In the background, Avery began to spasm slightly. "Starving…" Lestrade ignored him. "Has he been himself, has he been Sherlock, at any point today?"

"I know. I'm trying, there's only so much one man can take. I'm locking the flat down. He's not getting out. He's been himself for a few hours, but he tried.. never mind." John trailed off.

He showed Greg to the door, and locked it. Nobody was getting in or out.  
>"The cupboards are stocked, and there's far too much food in the fridge. I have enough sedatives to kill you, everything is hidden and locked away. The keys are in a safe place and we're going to be here for the week. Enjoy." John went into his room and slammed the door. He'd forgot to mention about the bars on the windows, but he'd probably guessed.<p>

Avery's stomach was churning. The pain from the spasms and the fact he hadn't eaten all day was leading to some severe nausea. "John, the handcuffs!" He hadn't been unlocked from the table and was sitting on the floor, arms behind his back, cuffed to the table leg. "John! You should be proud of me! I didn't kill anyone this time!" He said it with the air of someone who'd been in rehab and had managed to go to a bar without drinking. "I recognized some of them from the warehouse and I _didn't come near them!_"

Nothing. No reaction whatsoever. John was going to ignore him for the rest of eternity.

"Why am I—ow!" Sherlock noticed his wrist, fractured from Avery's previous escape. He didn't notice it by the visible bruising, of course, since his arms were behind him, but he sure noticed the pain. _Going by the silence, I'd have to say that Avery was tied up while John went out._

He realized he was hungry. It must have been some time since they'd switched off the film. He looked up at the counter, but nothing was within the reach of his legs or neck. His lips smacked as well—wasn't dehydration one of the side effects? The dehydration could have led to the spasm he felt next; his entire left leg curled quite suddenly and he shouted out involuntarily.

It was time for his next dose of medicine, too, for all the good it was doing him. He sat back against the chair leg and hoped John wouldn't be away too long (even though John wasn't out, he was being quiet enough where Sherlock couldn't even tell).

John walked out of his room to find Avery was on the floor. "What's happened?" He looked at the strangled pain on his face, and realized it was Sherlock. He unlocked him immediately. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" He lifted him up, he was holding his wrist and screaming. "Come into my room, we'll bandage it up."  
>He pulled him into his bedroom, and got his medical kit out. After it was bandaged and held in place, he hugged him. "Are you hungry? We have enough food. We're locked in the flat, by the way. For a week."<p>

"Starving. I guess Avery's stopped eating much." He managed a weak smile at his own attempt at a joke. "Isn't it time for the medicine, too?" He frowned. "Talking of medicine, have you made arrangements for Doctor Hussey to make a house call? Not that many psychotherapists make house calls, but it might be better that way. Have you started that diary I asked of you? I'm talking too much." He took a deep breath, but it was cut off by an abdominal spasm.

"I have an idea. Those chest harnesses—I saw some on Irene Adler's website—the ones that have the leather straps that cross over? If you put me in one of those and tie the other end to the bed, I won't hurt my wrist again and it's far more secure. They are designed for that purpose, after all, though, not, I expect for restraining a killer in particular." He was happy to have an idea rather than just wallowing in the recent blackness he had been inclined toward. "Use my card—order it by same-day shipping. The extra charge is worth it to retain what little peace of mind I have left." He looked sadly at John, yearning for the days when the worst they had to deal with was nicotine withdrawals. "Then maybe we can watch a different film. With popcorn. Something more normal."

John came back with the diary and the medicine. "Just ordered one of those things.." He passed the tablet and a glass of water to him. He swallowed it, disgusted. He put the film on and sat this time, in his own bed with Sherlock. "I've missed you, so much." He hugged him, not really wanting to let go. "What do you fancy to eat?" He smiled, still not letting go, nuzzling at his neck, like a child. "Hmm?"

Sherlock's body posture was reserved, hesitant even, but slowly he returned the hug. "Honestly, I'm in the mood for pizza. With olives and peppers and sausage. Not sure why." There were tears on his cheek, knowing that their moments together were growing more and more fleeting. "What's the film this time? Since the whole Voldemort-possessing-children thing isn't exactly distracting enough." He lowered his head. "I want to talk about anything but that."

"I'll go and make one if you like." He still wouldn't let go, as if it would make him stay. He moved his head up to his face, pressing his forehead against his. "I love you." He smiled, knowing that if he cried at this moment, he'd regret it. Sherlock gave him a half smile, but his eyes were teary. "I promise, we'll do something about this, and then we can have moments together without worrying when they'll end." He felt himself welling up. He sniffed. "I'll never leave you, no matter what." He kissed him, knowing that the times like this were short.

"That's why I chose you," he said simply and with uncharacteristic tenderness. "Even against all reason, you choose to hope for the best." As John left to go make pizza, Sherlock sat and watched the blank television. The colour was sort of hypnotizing, and before long he was in a slight trance, his mind completely blank for the first time in his life, and it was a good sort of blank. A restful blank. But he came out of it. "John," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "This is going to sound stupid, but may I have a teddy bear? One of the large ones that's the size of a fairly large child. It's just…I need something to hold onto when you're not wherever I am." He flushed slightly. "Preferably with the same colour hair that you have."

"Aw, okay," John giggled. "I actually have one that Harry gave to me, she said it reminded her of me." He brought the pizza out of the oven, and plated it. Then he went to his room [pizza in hand] and got the teddy from under his bed. "Here." He smiled. "I rather feel like I'm going to lose out now." He laughed.

Sherlock smiled and felt as though he was lying with his smile, even though he couldn't stop it. "You loved this, John. The fact that you still have it…" He smelled it. "It smells like you. In a good way." He sat on the bed, legs crossed, the bear in his lap for a few moments before he put it to the side. Once again, Sherlock wondered aloud what film it was they were going to be watching. "What did you say this one was?"

As the adverts at the start of the DVD ran through, he looked only at John, the medicine starting to take effect and heightening his emotions. "Why do I feel like I'm saying goodbye?"

"It's X-men. I'm surprised you've not watched anything!" He sat next to him, holding his hand, gently.  
>"You're.. not saying goodbye.. don't be silly, we'll work something out. For now lets just enjoy you being here." He smiled, patting his leg, lovingly. "God, I don't know if I have enough DVD's to last a week."<p>

For the longest time, Sherlock said nothing as he watched the film. About halfway through it, though, he muttered "It's the Geek Interpreter all over again." He smiled sideways. He'd started to shake from the medicine, but taking it with food helped significantly, and he wasn't manic, just jittery, and it was still too strong to let him sleep.

Once the film had ended, Sherlock decided to do something about that. "John, I know we said I wouldn't take sleeping pills again, but I haven't slept—at least I don't think I've slept—for more than about an hour since I started taking this medicine. I'm exhausted. I'm consulting my physician about the problem." He desperately needed to sleep, he knew it, physically speaking.

"Doctor Hussey said he can't come for 2 days, he's off. We'll use a sedative until then. Do you want to take it now?" He gulped, wanting to spend more time with him. Sherlock nodded, exhausted. So John went to fetch the pills and some water, and within half an hour he was asleep. He was just waiting for Avery to come through when he woke up, and he hated the idea. He kissed him, turned off the film, and covered him up, teddy in arms. "Time to clean up this place, I think." and John set to work, on cleaning the flat, completely.

Sherlock slept deeply and peacefully, even drooling slightly as he held the bear. His dreams, altered by the two medications, were simple. Just himself and John, lying in a grassy field near his grandmother's house in France, holding hands, basking in the sunlight, feeling the gentle wind tickle his hair. "I love you," John said, and even in his dream, Sherlock couldn't say it back. But that didn't matter, because he was happy. In the dream, he felt his fingers come alive with the warmth of the sun, and he hadn't realized he was cold. After what seemed an eternity of bliss, clouds began to roll in. "Come on," Sherlock said to John. "We need to go back inside." Then he woke up.

He rolled over and looked at the clock. Eleven in the morning. He stood up and went into the kitchen to find it unusually spotless. He didn't notice that he was dragging the teddy bear with him like a child, and indeed, in all but physical age, he looked it—his robe was hanging off one shoulder, his eyes crusted with sleep, drool barely wiped from the corner of his mouth, his hair in a bedhead that could only be called adorable, and the bear dragging the floor. "John," he said simply. "I feel five."

"You _look_ it!" John giggled. "Did you have a nice sleep?" He smiled up at him, from the table. "Hungry?" Sherlock nodded and sat down at the table, snuggling the teddy. "You seem to love that thing." He said, warmly. "Coffee?" Black, two sugars. Sherlock sipped at it tentatively. John hugged him from behind the chair. "You look much better, by the way, not tired at all. Glad you're here." He kissed him on the top of the head. The toaster popped. "Jam?" John asked him, but Sherlock was too busy staring at his teddy. He'd been doing that a lot lately, just staring off.

"J'aime mon ours en peluche," Sherlock said, before realizing he was speaking the wrong language. He blinked slowly. "French. My head's all sort of…fuzzy. But nice. Like children expect a cloud to be. Like candy floss." He smiled. "It's nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Good peaceful, not boring peaceful. It's strange." He picked up his toast with his right hand, left hand running through the short fur of the bear. "I think I like it."

He finished his breakfast quietly, taking his dose of medicine, humming on occasion without realizing he was doing so. When he was done, he sat in his chair in the living area, and picked up Avery's sketchbook. There were three finished pictures, one of a flower, the same sort as was clumped in handfuls in the eye sockets of the skull on the mantle, and two of John. The first one of John was him lying as if just awakened from a nightmare, Avery's sharp, brutal handwriting in an inscription at the bottom: "don't be sad, John." The second was of John injured; Avery had written "never again, I promise you, never will another hand harm you." Sherlock's face fell. He could tell how much Avery cared in a way he couldn't. It stung. He unconsciously gripped the teddy bear more tightly. He'd decided to call it Hamish, but he wasn't going to say anything yet.

"He can draw," he said, showing the sketchbook to John. "Nice to know he's good for something." He scrunched his face. He'd realized what he'd said about, essentially, himself. "Not what I meant." A short pause later, and he was starting to feel jittery again, less childlike. He didn't want the feeling to fade. "What shall we do today?"

**Sherlock's blog:**

It was nice while it lasted.

I think this medication, in combination with John's sleeping pills, is doing some good after all.

After I fell asleep, I had a rather lovely dream about being back in France. John was there, of course, by my side as always, and we just sort of lay in the grass and watched the clouds.

When I woke up, I felt peaceful, like I haven't felt in years. Properly peaceful, not the sort of peace I used to get from cocaine. Actual proper happiness. I haven't been happy like that since the last time I was in France—perhaps that's why I dreamed of being there. It was like my mind was made of candy floss instead of an Escher painting. I liked it. I needed to feel that way for the first time in thirty years and despite the potential dangers of the chemical interactions, I'm going to take them both together again tonight. I am living with a doctor, after all.

But then I had to take my medication again, without the sleeping pill, and now the jitters are back. Taking this on a full stomach seems to keep the mania at bay, just a bit, but it doesn't seem to be doing much to suppress Avery. In fact, going by the physical signs, he's getting worse.

But, as idiotically sentimental as it seems, this teddy bear John gave me helps me to relax. Not physically—the drug has seen to that—but mentally. I think it reminds me of the time when I was too young to understand the world.

"Not sure, anything you like?" John smiled. They obviously couldn't go out, so he had to think of something. "We still have DVD's and stuff. Apart from that, I don't think we have anything to do." He should have planned for this. "We can bake cakes?" he suggested, waving his hand absently. Sherlock nodded, excitedly. "Okay then, cakes it is."

Sherlock burst into wholesome laughter. "Last time I tried to bake a cake, I ended up giving the whole family food poisoning." He smiled. "I was eleven. It was Mycroft's going-away-to-university present." He stood up from his chair and walked to the kitchen. "But we can give it a try." He looked sadly at the empty table, now cleared of his chemistry equipment. "Who knows, if this medicine doesn't work out, maybe I could do that for a living instead. Sherlock Holmes, consulting baker." A tear rolled down his cheek, the expression of the cold depression that was returning at the thought of never being able to reliably be himself again.

John hugged him. "Come on, let's go." He pulled him into the kitchen. The next half hour was filled with laughing (childishly) and flicking ingredients at each other. When the cake was done, Sherlock insisted on icing it. "Fine." John pouted. "I'll go and watch TV while you do that then." and he slumped down onto the couch, happily. Sherlock was here for now, and that was all that mattered.

Sherlock had iced it before the cake had cooled, and the sugary liquid was running all sorts of everywhere. By this time, he was starting to resign himself to the depressing thought that he'd never be a detective again. He put the cake into the refrigerator _(where the head used to be_, he thought solemnly) to cool before returning to his chair in the living room. "Cakes instead of heads. Icing instead of blood. Candles instead of fingers. Flour and sugar and water where there used to be human tissues and chemicals and _science_." He was talking to himself softly. "I don't want to give up what I am."

The doorbell buzzed, and Sherlock knew better than to answer it. He knew what it probably was, delivery of the harness they'd use to restrain Avery. His quiet mutterings became more frantic. "I don't want to be caged like an animal. Like a rabid dog. Like something not human. Caged inside myself, inside this flat, torn from the only thing I've ever found to fully satisfy my mind, never seeing anyone again except for the one person I can almost love who will become my jailer." He was crying again, panicking again, and he knew that it was because of his medicine making him more emotional, making him realize that many of his worst fears were coming true.

He buried his head in the teddy bear and felt a little better. The panic was easing slightly, though the quiet tears kept coming like a raging waterfall, and he was trembling as he stared into the unlit fireplace.

**Sherlock's blog:**

Something's wrong with my mind.

Aside from the split, obviously.

I can't hold emotion back. I can't stop it. It's too strong. It's never been like this before, and I can only assume it's due to this medication. Since I've begun taking it, I've been more frightened than I've ever been, I've been the happiest I've been in thirty-four years, I've been deeply, deeply sad, and I've been at peace.

It feels wrong. But strangely right.

Is this what it's like to be normal? All these distracting emotions, cluttering up your minds, making you prone to irrational conclusions?

How do you _function_?

"Mrs. Hudson will get it." John said, "It's okay.. When we've been to see Doctor Hussey on wednesday, I shan't keep you locked up in here for much longer. I'm not even trying to keep _you_ in, I'm stopping Avery from getting out." He sighed. "But hey, he's not been around for a while, so let's watch Pirates of the Caribbean, you wanted to, right?" He grabbed Sherlock by the hand and pulled him onto the couch. "It's okay, I promise." He wrapped his arms around him, snuggling into his neck.

Sherlock wiped his eyes on John's hair. "Yes. Let's." He couldn't find it in himself to smile because he felt so black, but the fact that John was trying to help him no matter what comforted him. "I know it's not me you're trying to…" He couldn't say imprison. "But it hurts so much. And I can't even focus to keep the emotions out." He hadn't realized he was hugging John, but he was, like a frightened child who had nearly fallen from a great height. He didn't want to fall.

"Hey, it's okay, seriously." John cupped Sherlock's face and looked him in the eyes. "You're brilliant and amazing. _You_ out of all people can pull through this. I have utter faith in you." Sherlock blinked at him, doubtfully. "I mean it. You're strong. You can do this. Don't panic, everything will be okay."

Sherlock's brow was deeply furrowed. "I can't help but panic. That's the horror of it." There was a knock on the door. "Mrs. Hudson."

"Boys, why've you locked your doors? There's a package for you out here."

Sherlock released John from his desperate hug and cleared his throat, wiping his face properly. "You should get that. Then we should—" He swallowed. "Yes. You know." He shut his eyes as if trying to remain composed. "Whose room?"

John got the package and said it was all for a case. He turned to Sherlock. "Mine." He slowly walked in, heaving the box. Sherlock sat down onto the bed, looking glum. "Hey, we can bring the film in here." John brought the film in, and Sherlock's teddy. "I'm going to make you some tea." He smiled. Really, he just needed to think. Sherlock seemed to see himself as a problem, and thus wanted to be restrained.

When John returned with the tea, he cleared his throat, so Sherlock would notice. "Right, look. I'm not putting you in that right now." He nodded at the package. "You're not a problem, I'll get Avery into it when I need to. I can knock a man out."

Sherlock sipped the tea slowly; he really wasn't thinking about it. "You'd hesitate. You wouldn't strike first. I know you too well for that. Would you really hit him the instant he emerges or would you wait for him to—to do something?" Sherlock knew the answer. Even as a soldier, John's self-restraint was spectacular, and Sherlock was frankly amazed he hadn't fought back yet (with the exception of the headbutt). Sherlock put the teddy between the two of them, hoping to prevent Avery's advances. "I always wanted to be a pirate as a child. No rules. Take what you wanted. Don't have to be nice if you don't want to be. Sword fights." He smiled slightly, remembering the times Mycroft had humoured him by play-swordfighting. "Did you always want to be a doctor?"

"No.." He laughed. "I wanted to be a writer. But it's just not practical, so when I reached high-school I just.. went a different way." He sighed. He remembered how he used to fill books and books with stories. "I was never any good." He smiled, reassuringly, trying to show Sherlock that he was happy with it.

Slowly, he moved the teddy. "If he's going to do something, I promise I'll punch him at the first sign. So, if I hurt you, I'm sorry." He curled up almost around Sherlock. "I love you." He sighed as he drifted off into sleep.

Sherlock sat in his protective embrace, the gentle warmth putting him in that sort of semiconscious state one is in when one isn't quite tired enough for a nap but tries to take one anyway. The medicine in his system kept him twitchy and shaking, but they sat like that for some time, the television on, but the DVD not in the machine.

When John finally woke up, several hours later, he noticed Avery's sketchpad was on the bed next to Sherlock. Avery had woken up for a while. One of them—Avery or Sherlock—had returned to the little half-awake ball he'd been in before. He wasn't shaking any more; it was next time for the next dose of medicine.

"You're awake," said the shared voice. "Hello." He shifted and noticed the sketchpad. "Oh. Avery's been awake." Sherlock picked up the book and looked at the latest drawing. It was a picture of John, lonely, and had a poem underneath:

the pain in the eyes of the soldier  
>fighting a private combat<br>do not cry, my captain  
>it will be alright in the end<p>

Sherlock closed the book. He looked around, taking in the rest of the room. "He hasn't done anything other than draw, has he?"

"Not that I know." John groaned, "I'm so fucking stupid. I shouldn't of slept. I needed it though." He gazed up at Sherlock. "I don't know why he keeps drawing me. It's kind of.. strange. I've told him about my lack of feeling towards him, but.. something feels.. wrong…" John trailed off. He'd thought about how Avery and Sherlock were the same in some ways. How Avery was the side of Sherlock with emotion. But he was so different at the same time. Promiscuous, violent, resentful. That was not the man John knew. As he explained this to Sherlock, he felt his heart beat rising. Sherlock could take it the wrong way. "..And the only way I know it's him, is when he tries it on with me or if he says a hurtful comment."

Sherlock grew pale at hearing the details of Avery's behaviour and he closed his eyes. "A part of my psyche I've either been able to control or was completely absent." His eyes snapped open again. "There's something more, isn't there? Something you're not telling me." He couldn't remember when John had told Avery about the Moriarty inside his head. But he knew something was wrong, not only with himself, but with John, too. "Tell me, John."

"I.. told him something personal. Something I didn't know how to tell you…" Sherlock looked pained. "I've been hearing.. a voice. Not just any voice, but.. Jim's. He's been telling me to do things, like get away from you, and to be with Avery. It's scary. I don't do what he tells me to, obviously. My own mind is the strongest. I can fight against it, I can do what I want, for now."

For a moment, Sherlock couldn't say anything. His terror had doubled. "Have you told anyone? You need to tell someone who can help. I should have realized—stupid, stupid, _stupid_." He was shaking his head, trying to stave off the panic at the thought that John might be headed toward the same sort of break. "What have I done?" Sherlock saw it as his fault. If he'd never grown attached to John in the first place, Moriarty would never have considered coming after John. He might never have even met him except that once in Bart's. Not even then, really.

Sherlock pressed John's phone into his hands, desperately trying not to hyperventilate again. "You have to call Hussey or Thompson or someone and arrange a sooner appointment. It can't wait three days. This is an _emergency_, John."

"I'm fine, really. Sounds ironic, but I don't like doctors prodding and poking into my personal business." He coughed. "Okay, other doctors. I don't want to go, it can wait. I've not had any issues today, or yesterday. So everything will be fine." Sherlock was pacing saying words like 'stupid, issues', or 'I should have known.' "John stopped him, holding his head in place. "Stop. I am _fine." _He threw his arms around Sherlock. "Trust me. Now let's focus on you."

"No, you aren't fine. If I lose you in the same way I'm losing myself, I'll have nothing left—nothing!" He was panicking. "I thought maybe, since you were a soldier, the things you saw on the battlefield would harden you, protect you, but, oh God, oh God, oh God…" His pacing became more frantic and his breathing more ragged. He didn't want to think about what darkness the mind of a soldier, a trained killer would have, let alone what it might do with his medical knowledge. He was overreacting a bit and he knew it, but his medication had stripped away any layers of emotional detachment and was causing him a flurry of emotions that he wasn't used to. He turned to John with extreme manic urgency.

"If you love me, you will do this for me. You will arrange to have a psychiatric doctor come here tomorrow, before noon. He or she will see us both." He hated using John's feelings for him to manipulate him, but he needed to know that one of them, at least, was going to be sane.

"Fine." John walked out of the room. He picked up the phone, and dialed the number that was now naturally there, in his mind. "Doctor Hussey? We need an appointment tomorrow. Yes, yes I know you're busy, but this is urgent. I insist. Okay. Yep. See you then."  
>He clicked the phone off and sat down at the table. <em>You wouldn't be in this situation if you'd just listened to me and let Avery have his way with you. You still could, you know. Sherlock isn't going to take you any time soon.<br>_John shook his head, as if a miniature Moriarty was going to tumble out so he could stamp on him. He wanted it to stop.

"Thank you." But then Sherlock saw John shake his head, eyes closed tightly as if fighting something. All colour had drained from Sherlock and he looked like a walking corpse. "John, are you hearing him again?" He grabbed John by the shoulders, a bit too tightly, but nowhere near Avery's strength. "Please, listen to me. You have to focus on me, on us, on everything that made us so beautiful together." He did something that he wasn't certain was a good idea because it could trigger Avery, but he reached down and brushed his lips against John in his own way of kissing. "You have to remember what we were," he whispered as he pulled away, his eyes pleading. His silvery blue eyes stood out from his paler-than-usual face, desperate, as if hanging onto his sanity by one thread called John Watson.

"Imagine if I had a split personality like Avery? Imagine he was like you, and could detach himself from emotions and spoke to you the way that.. I don't know, Irene did? Imagine that, now imagine that they wanted to make a pass at you every time they were around, and you had to fight it, whilst fighting yourself? I hate this!" John was sobbing loudly, and he fell to the floor, as if he had nothing left to hold him up.  
>"I want it to be me and you. Not Avery and Jim. That's what it'll end up like!"<p>

"I…I am imagining it." His voice was shakier than it had ever been before. "That's what's terrifying me." He reached down and put his arms around John. "Don't go. But I don't want to torture you further, either. If—if you think it would be better to just—" He couldn't say it. He didn't know what to feel. On the one hand, Avery was making things far far worse, and it would be good for John to get away from him every so often, but on the other hand, Sherlock needed John badly. What was he going to do?

Then he remembered something that had, in his childhood, calmed his own nightmares. He stood up and crossed the flat and began playing his violin, an improvised lullaby tune, simple, relaxing, and peaceful. Sherlock trembled at first from his own insecurities, but before long felt his fingers steady as he hoped the tune would help to ease both his and John's addled minds.

"I'm not sure I should mix two tablets not prescribed for me. I'll take the ones Doctor Hussey gave you, but that's it. I'm sure I'll be fine." He went to get the tablets and some water. They both sat back down on the floor and swallowed them. Sherlock had refused to sleep whilst John was manic, as it was dangerous for him to go it alone.

It had been an hour, and John started to feel jumpy. "Is there any food in this house, I'm so hungry, oh my god. Food food food, Sherlock do you want some food? I'd like some. Should I make some food?" Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his eyebrow raised. He was telling John to sit down, but he wouldn't listen, he'd taken to spinning around in circles.

Something, Avery possibly, told Sherlock to get out the video camera. So he did, leaving it running in the corner with an empty memory stick. Sherlock wished John would film Avery, but he hadn't yet. He smiled, amused for the first time in a long time. "We could try my cake. Or if that's not alright, some beans on toast or something. You know how bad I am at cooking." He, too, had omitted the sleeping pill and was starting to grow manic. They would watch the video tomorrow when lucid and laugh, no doubt. He got the knife and sliced the cake with the skills of a ten-year-old (his hands were shaking too badly and it took a good deal of focus to not cut himself).

"Oh, GOD," he shouted around a bite of mediocre cake. "We've turned into hyperactive eight year olds!" Sherlock laughed at the thought, wondering exactly what John was like at that age. He put his plate down and before he could stop himself, was jumping on the sofa. Once he tired of that, he stared at the cake, speaking rapidly. "Sugar while manic. Not the best of plans. Certainly not my most shining moment. I'll make us some beans. And toast. Toast is good."

Ten minutes later, Sherlock sat in his chair, across from John, and was flicking beans at him.

"Stop flicking beans at meeee!" John was giggling. "Come over here?" He gestured next to him. Sherlock gingerly moved across the room to sit next to John. "Guess what? I like you, but no actually I love you, and it's weird because I can't help it and I can usually control my emotions, or I think I can or whatever." He rambled on for about 20 minutes before flinging himself at Sherlock, hugging him and not letting go.

Sherlock laughed, almost cruelly, but he was still himself. "John Watson, controlling his emotions?" Then he stopped laughing. "I wish I could say it back, John. I really do. But I can't. I can't." His own face was buried in John's coat, crying miserably. "Love has always been the one emotion I can never come close to touching. It's so…alien. Wrong. That's why it took so long to start our courtship. I didn't want to expose myself to it. But…even though I still can't love, I'm so glad I tried." He was shaking hard from the medicine and refusing to let go of John's jumper. "We'll be fine soon. I hope." Then he made a misguided attempt at a joke: "All four of us."

"I just wonder what you would do without me. I know you lived alone before me, but really, what was it like? Were you content with being alone? If I was to leave right now, are you saying that it'd be the same? Almost as if I was never there?" John was starting to cry, but not like usual. No, this was hysterical. He and Sherlock were shaking with what felt like the same emotion, but according to Sherlock, it was different. "Tell me, Sherlock, how are we different?" He'd pulled himself up to look at him. "I was alone, but then we met. Now I depend on you. I know you depend on me. We go through the same things concerning each other, and you're just too scared to say anything." He was coughing and spluttering on his tears. "I'm going to bed." and with that, he'd gone to continue his hysterical sobs in his room.

John left before Sherlock could say "I didn't know how broken I was before we met"; he didn't have time to say "You filled the hole I hadn't realized was empty". John had gone to his room and Sherlock just lay where he was, shaking, staring at the ceiling, wondering when these emotions would please just stop.

And for a while, between two and nine in the morning, they did, in a way. Avery was there. He turned the camera off—the battery was wearing down anyway—and wrote a poem:

the other half of my soul

once empty

now filled

love is a wond'rous thing

that leaves its footprints

upon the heart

but now 'twould seem

my other half is breaking

that foul darkness

engulfing him

please

may the light of a million prayers

protect him from his pain

I cannot lose him

I would die

a shattered man

At nine-thirty, Avery woke John with a respectful kiss. "All I want is your happiness."

"-mmfSherlock?" John mumbled out of his pillow. "S'goin' on?" He turned round to see that it wasn't Sherlock, at all. Avery was standing there, watching him. "Oh.." He said in a very glum tone. "I guess you know what happened. I just wanted him to say it back." He got up and threw his arms around Avery. _You've admitted defeat._

Avery smiled. Finally, acceptance. "Thank you, John." He smiled warmly. "You don't know what that hug means to me." He returned it, and planted a more insistent kiss on John's mouth, but nothing beyond the norm of an average couple. He sat down, holding John's hand. "I know you want him to say he loves you. I think I want him to say it, too. He knows he's happier, more fulfilled than he was without you." Avery's thumb ran across John's. "I was never too clear on the plan—were we seeing Hussey at his practice, or was he coming here?" He didn't mention what he knew—it was time for his next dose of medicine.

"We assumed Sherlock would be here, so we said we'd go out. I'll have to cancel it now." He pulled out his phone and sent a text. "But I will have to go on wednesday.. you know. He wants you gone. It's for the best, for him, for his own sanity." John felt sick, he suddenly realized how very wrong this was. _He cares more than the other one ever did. _"I'm going to make some food." He stood up, pulling his hand away, and as he walked out of the room, it felt like it was burning, as if it'd had acid spilt on it. Avery followed him, but didn't notice this, and he continued to put his arms around John at every given opportunity.

"Don't you think it would be better for Hussey to see me and not just Sherlock?" Avery's hand reached for John's again. When John pulled away, the message was clear. "He needs to see you. Sherlock was right. It is an emergency. It's like you want to be in pain when he's not here. You shouldn't suffer for something so selfish. I can't control the changes any more than he can." He bit his lip. "Besides, there's always the chance there will be another switch before we arrive or while we're in the…what do you call it, anyway? Session? Interview?" He looked at John sadly. "I can see the conflict in your eyes. You hate yourself for wanting me—that little bit of you that does. For that reason, I'm doing everything I can to avoid shagging you right here and now." His eyes glittered. "And trust me, it's not easy." He took John's phone out of his pocket, not exactly hiding his ulterior motive, but controlling his long thin fingers. "Uncancel the appointment."

"Fine." John sent another text, explaining how the situation was getting worse. All the while, Avery was trying to kiss up the back of his neck. John shivered. It felt wrong. John moved away from him. "I'm gonna, um, go and watch telly." He sat down on the couch, stretching his legs out on it, so he couldn't sit down next to him.

Avery didn't want to give up his physical expression of his love, but knew that unless he controlled himself, John would never accept him. He sat in John's chair, knowing that it would probably be hard on John to see Avery sitting in Sherlock's. "When is the appointment?" John didn't so much as acknowledge that he'd spoken. "Damn it, John! It hurts when you pretend I'm not here. It hurts when you ignore me. I am real and I exist and this…this lack of willingness to accept that I am a person hurts. I've seen the results of this sort of treatment. No friends. Everyone hates that person. No one listens to what he has to say. He is denied his purpose in living. He is constantly told he's useless and evil and he should just die—because that's what it would do to me. It would kill me to just "go away". It's agony. The only thing keeping me from—" Avery swallowed, fighting back hysterical tears. "From doing as you seem to want and ending my life is that it would also kill Sherlock. And that would kill you."

"I didn't say anything." John muttered, absently. "I know you want to have sex with me, but I'd be cheating on Sherlock. Not happening." He was still staring at the TV, refusing to look up at him. "You _know_ I'm physically attracted to you, and the emotion I have is only there when Sherlock is. I'd have sex with you if I didn't have the emotion for him, but I do." He finally looked up. "I'm sorry." He got up and went over to the table where he'd left the tablets, (he'd left them under some books so they'd be hidden,) "Time for your medication." He passed one over in the usual fashion.

"One won't be enough," Avery said softly before taking it. "I know why you're doing what you're doing. I know why you ignore me at every chance. But it hurts. I feel like there's no point to living, not here, not tied up and drugged, with you barely seeing me as a living being, and treating me accordingly." His voice started to break. "More than once I've thought about stopping this. Stopping—stopping everything. You and Sherlock together, that's what's preventing me from—" He breathed deeply. "I could never hurt him. I could never hurt you. But you seem to want me dead, you want me gone, the sooner the better and to hell with how I feel about it. Every time you look at me like that, I just want to blow my brains out. I need you, I love you, I have to have you and for you to see me as just—" He paused and blinked. "What has he been saying?" Sherlock looked around the room. "Or for that matter, what has he been doing?"

"Nothing bad." John muttered. "He wants me to have sex with him, but he's not forcing me into it. I just told him that whilst I find him, that being you, physically attracted, I'm not emotionally attached to him whatsoever. I'm sorry for last night by the way.." He trailed off, looking around. "I know you can't help it." John flung his arms around Sherlock and kissed him, more than he usually would have. He had to battle the urges that the voice forced upon him, he wanted Sherlock, not Avery. He had to battle it, he needed to, before he lost himself. He carried on, his hands in Sherlock's hair. _Stop, you don't want him! You want Avery! _But he didn't listen.

"Um," Sherlock said around John's mouth. "You sure thisgoodidea?"

It wasn't. Avery was back and with a passion. Things were starting to get out of control again, thrusting and squirming and tangling their limbs together, mouths all over one another's necks and faces. Avery even passionately kissed John's scar, his soldier's most prominent physical proof of his courage. He was on top of John in the middle of the rug, trying to worm his clothes off to complete the act. This time the only thing that stopped him was the doorbell ringing. "Our taxi," Avery gasped breathlessly, frozen on the verge of complete disrobing. "We never get there, do we?" He stood up reluctantly and got dressed again. "Ah, well, maybe later."

John slid into the taxi with Avery. He placed his hand on John's knee. He shuffled towards the window. "No," He stared out of the window. "I'm sorry, Avery." He knew that today he could lose Avery _and _Sherlock. "It's over now, really." He muttered, sadly.

They pulled up to the hospital. They walked down long corridors, and up to the lab. Doctor Hussey greeted them. "Avery, I'd like to say goodbye." John was getting teary. He wouldn't have time to say goodbye to Sherlock. "I don't want to do this until Sherlock's back." He was shaking.

Doctor Hussey pulled him to one side. John told him about the voice, and he prescribed him some pills. He reminded him that they'd be using the machine today. The one that only gave a 40% chance.

Avery was crying too, the full slap-in-the-face of statistics like a death sentence. "G…goodbye, John. I love you. I love you so much. I'm doing this for you. I'm dying for you. There's no one I'd rather die for." He slowly sat down onto the bed, stoically staring at the ceiling. "Will you be there, John, when they turn the machine on? I…I want you to be the last thing…I ever see." His face changed to an expression of momentary confusion before sadness kicked in. "Oh." Sherlock had realized where he was and what was about to happen.

The doctors and nurses all left, saying things like "we'll give you a few moments."

"John, I'm afraid." It was plain he was trying to hold himself together, knowing that this could be the last time John ever saw him as something other than an empty shell. He wanted to be his old self as he said goodbye. He grabbed John's hand and held it tightly. "I need my laptop."

He typed a blog entry before turning back to John. "I need you there when…when it happens. Even if they don't want you to come in, promise me you'll find some way to make them let you hold my hand."

**Sherlock's blog:**

Forty per cent. That's all the chance I have. And there's no guarantee that I'll come out dominant even then. It could be Avery. Forever.

In the statistically-high event that neither personality survives this procedure, know that you made my life the best it had ever been. I never knew how empty my soul was before you filled that deep chasm. Thank you for that. You've taught me so much about myself. I didn't understand love or friendship or anything like that before you opened the box that held my heart. I think I do now.

If Avery is the one to survive, let me say that I hope he can learn to control his feverish passions. You, John, of all people, would be the one person who can help him. Perhaps, in time, you could love him as you love me and as I think he loves you. Don't feel guilty if you start to feel yourself loving him. Or, for that matter, anyone else.

Know that I don't want you to live your life in mourning if I am gone. Mark my passing by living a life you're happy in. Don't cry if you hear a violin. Don't weep as the rain falls. Don't keep a police radio by your bed and wonder "what would Sherlock do?" before dissolving into depression.

If my mind is lost forever and my body becomes nothing but a shell, it's your choice what to do with it. Terminate life support and bury me or keep up hope that I could recover. It's up to you. Knowing you, you'll keep it in the hospital until it can't survive any longer with even life support, hoping against reason that one day I'll come back. Your stubborn persistence in optimism is one of my favourite of your traits.

Live. Love. Remember me fondly, but don't let the memory control you. I wouldn't want that. Live your own life, not the one you think I'd want.

Believe me to be, my dear friend, sincerely yours.

John held his hand. "I love you, and I know you can't say it back, but.. I do." Sherlock was in panic; he and Avery were sharing right now.

Avery came back for about five minutes, before he changed back, and it was this way for the next half hour.

Avery was sobbing, confessing his love for John, over and over. "I'm so sorry, Avery. You're dying for me. I'd never do this if you weren't affecting Sherlock, you know that." John leaned over the table and brushed his lips over Avery's. "I never accepted you, and I'm sorry. I'll miss you, in my own way. Thank you."

Avery smiled tearfully and grabbed John's hair. Then his grip weakened—he was Sherlock again, and just in time for the nurses to come back.

"It's time."

Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes and before they started to wheel him away, he managed to choke out five words. "John Watson, I…love you."

They had him in the operating theatre, and John had scrubbed up, insisting that he be present, not only as a friend, but as a medical doctor. The attending physician reluctantly agreed, and before too long, they were attaching a device to Sherlock's head.

He was on a medicine that kept him sedated but conscious—too weak to say anything, but drugged enough so he wouldn't be in too much pain. He needed to be conscious for the treatment to have any chance of working. His fogged eyes looked to John and squeezed his hand with all the effort he could muster (which was feeble, considering how sedated he was).

"This won't be pleasant to watch," Hussey said. He ran numerous checks on the machine to make sure it was working properly before switching it on. Sherlock cried out and convulsed violently, his hand half-breaking John's as he thrashed about. Then they turned it off and Sherlock moaned in pain before they switched it on again. This process was repeated ten times, and the reaction grew less profound with each one, until finally there was no reaction at all.

"That's meant to happen," Hussey said to John as he checked his final vitals. Sherlock was unconscious now, completely out of it—his mind had run away from the pain his body was in, precisely as expected. "Everything's gone well," Hussey said. "We'll give him a few hours to recover and then start testing." The nurses wheeled Sherlock out of the OR and into a recovery room, where he remained unconscious.

"That was basically a lobotomy." John spat. "You didn't say…" He ran off to Sherlock's room so he could wait for him to wake up.

After an hour or two, there was movement of the fingers, showing that he was coming back round. As who, though, John didn't know. He held his hand, the whole time. A faint hearted squeeze was returned.

"How is he?" Hussey had come around to check. John told him about the squeeze, and Hussey shook his head. "It happens often, even in the comatose. It's not a definite sign of recovery, but it does show that he has motor control."

It was another weary five hours before there was another sign, and this time, a promising one. John looked up to see Sherlock's eyes open. Not focussed, just open. Staring at the wall across from him, expressionless, vacant.

"Sherlock?" John walked in front of where his eyes were. "Are you with me?" He was waving his hands around. Hussey came in and said how it'd take a while for him to get back to his normal state.

John sat back down in the chair. "You know, Sherlock. I'll love you regardless. I'm going to look after you, I promise." He kissed his hand. "I won't leave you." Sherlock turned his head, his eyes still vacant. John felt all his hope drain from him. "Please." He squeaked.

Something in Sherlock's mind tingled at John's kiss. It was just a vague sensation, the words closest to being able to describe it would be "thank you for keeping me safe", but his mind was so muddled, he couldn't even think the words. All he could do was blankly stare. His eyes still couldn't focus and wouldn't follow movement, and it seemed he was looking through John rather than at him and that he had turned his head because he'd registered a presence rather than John specifically. His hand clenched around John's again, only slightly.

John smiled, relief spread through him. He was going to be okay.

It took about four hours before Sherlock could form basic words, and Doctor Hussey said he was okay to go home. He had to be taken in a wheelchair, but he was allowed all the same. John spoke to him all the way back to Baker street.

When they arrived, he seated Sherlock in his chair. He'd had to carry him upstairs. He fetched him a drink and some food, and left him to watch television whilst he cleaned up his room for him.

He still stared blankly a large majority of the time, barely registering anything that was going on. The only time he showed any sign of significant awareness was when John was in his range of vision. Sherlock was slowly recovering.

"Com…puter," he managed, and attempted a blog entry. It took him ten minutes to type, but eventually he managed "thfank yuou jhoin" before a tear of gratitude rolled down his face.

John kissed him on the top of the head. "It's going to take time, love. But it'll be okay, I promise you." He brought him his teddy, and placed it next to him. "Here, I know how much you love this."

Sherlock held the bear weakly. "Ha…mish," he said with much difficulty. "Named. Ha-mish." He blinked slowly. He was managing to piece together more and more, but was having a vast amount of motor control difficulty.

It could be days before he recovered full use of his limbs or even his mouth. He understood that and did his best to struggle through. "Food."

John was thrilled that Sherlock had named it Hamish, it was adorable.  
>"Okay, love." He made him pizza, it seemed to be his favorite lately. He put it in front of him. "Can you pick it up, or do you want some help?" Sherlock tried to move his arms but the most he could manage was his fingers. John helped him by moving it to his mouth, Sherlock took a large bite. He must have been famished because he'd not eaten in days.<p>

Sherlock ate gratefully. He'd finished half a slice before managing a feeble attempt at a slurred conversation. "Look. Us. Fra…fragile. Brok-ken." He was starting to cry softly. He'd watched his great-grandmother after her stroke and it was similar to this, being so weak you can't even feed yourself. It frightened him then and it was frightening him now. "Photo…mantle…where is?" There was a photograph of himself and John that used to sit on the mantle. It was Sherlock's favourite—the two of them at nighttime, standing on a bridge across the Thames. Why hadn't he noticed it had been moved? "Why…moved?"

"It's in my room. I moved it because I wanted it near me. I'll put it back now." John went to get it and placed it back in its place. Sherlock smiled. "Don't worry about this, you'll be okay." He pulled his chair next to Sherlock's and placed his head on his shoulder. "I'm going to be here the whole time, if that's what you want."

"Yes." He spoke unfalteringly. "Stay." He leaned his head back onto John's and before long fell asleep.

But it wasn't a peaceful sleep. His dream was filled with abstract bursts of violent white light and painful sharp noises, like there was lightning in his head. Every time one of these went off, he would yelp slightly.

He jerked awake and realized he was squeezing the teddy bear quite hard. "John. Wake."

"Hello, you. Are you okay?" John smiled at him, kissing the end of his nose. Sherlock looked tired and scared.  
>"Tea?" John got up and went into the kitchen. It was time for his own medication.<br>"Oh, Sherlock? I'm on medication now." He sat back down. "I feel great."

"Nnnight…mare." Sherlock's arms were starting to work better now, still not enough to be able to hold his tea, but enough to try to reach out to his cup. He flinches at the nose-kiss, residual trauma from what Moriarty's done, but he doesn't react any more violently than that. "_Good_. Happy…for you." His eyes smiled a little, even though the rest of his face showed no sign of it (not because he wasn't, but because his motor control was still hit-and-miss). He groaned and shut his eyes. "My head…" The flashes and noises still continued, though significantly less intense than when he was asleep. It was like having a pinball machine stuck in his head, with an eternal 1970s teen at the controls. "Mild hallu…hallucin…hallu-cin-a-tions." He winced again as there was a particularly loud bong. "Not mild. Noisy. Bright. Thunder…pinball." He reached a hand towards his teacup and put his finger through the handle, but was unable to lift it.

"Here." John helped him by moving it to his lips. "Would you like an aspirin? You could do with something to stop your head from hurting." He went to fetch some. "I'm going to put Pirates of the Caribbean on for you; I know how much you like it.

Sherlock was quiet whilst watching the film, like he was thinking. He couldn't move his arms up to his thinking position, though, it was too much effort. After the film, he tried to get up, his legs collapsed under him. "Sherlock, you need to rest, we'll train your legs when you've spoken properly."

"Need body…to obey…" Sherlock was plainly frustrated at his inability to control his body. His speech was improving now; he could make more than one-syllable words without difficulty. "Vocal excer…exercises." He was flopped back down in his chair and he began to slowly attempt an old theatre vocal warm-up: "To sit in sol—solemn silence on a dull, dark dock, in a pesti—pestilential prison with a life-long lock, awaiting the sensa…tion of a short, sharp shock, from a cheap and chip…py…" He didn't have the strength to finish the rest of it, but was pleased he'd gotten out that much. His face was scrunched up in frustration and pain and his fingers were twitching irritatedly. "L…" He had to take a few deep breaths. "Les…Lestr…does he…know Aver…Avery's g…gone?"

"I'll text him now, I told him we were going to the hospital, so he's just waiting to see if you've recovered."

John pulled out of his phone.  
>ToGreg Lestrade<br>Sherlock's better, Avery's gone. Thank you, for everything. - JW  
>FromJohn Watson<p>

"There, done!" John smiled at him. "Do you want to try and walk now, or..?"

"So…tired. Walk tomor…tomorrow." He fell asleep rather suddenly and was out for several hours, the noise and light still bombarding his head, but he was too exhausted to be woken up by it.

When he did wake up at three in the morning, his head felt a bit more sorted out. John had fallen asleep in the chair next to him. Sherlock smiled gently as he watched John breathing slowly for the next hour. He, at least, was peaceful.

Sherlock wondered if John had caught the words he'd said that he was prepared to have been his last, when he was wheeled into surgery. For a fleeting instant, he'd known what love was firsthand. But it could have been Avery's emotions bleeding through because the warm glow had since faded. For that strange moment, he loved John more than anything else in the world, a romantic love even. But now he wasn't sure. All he knew now was how much he was glad John was here for him, despite everything he'd put him through.

When John woke up, after what seemed like hours, Sherlock was looking at him, smiling. "mffhh-hello." He smiled back. "Hungry?" John wanted to get Sherlock out of the house, but he was refusing to move.

"Come on, you need to try, or you'll never get walking again." Sherlock just flatly refused. John gave in and put on another Pirates of the Caribbean film on for him, and made him something to eat.

He wanted to talk about what got said at the hospital, but it wasn't the time.

Sherlock did something unexpected during the scene when William Turner died. He cried. Just a little, just one tear, but it was far more than normal for him. The thought of losing someone you care about forever hit a tiny bit close to home. But he sighed contentedly when it was revealed that William was the new captain of the Flying Dutchman. "He'll never really die," he whispered.

When the film ended, he looked toward John. "I'd like to…try to walk." He leaned forward in his chair with great effort before going vertical for a brief second and then toppling into John's arms. "Maybe not," he said weakly. "We could go out. The wheelchair. Strolling on Baker Street." There were too many memories of Avery still remaining in 221B. An uncleaned ash-tray, the sketchbook on the table, the flowers now wilting in the skull. "Need fresh air."

"Right, okay. I can help you walk if you like, I can hold you up?" They tried, it wasn't hard as Sherlock was so light. He was weak on one side and it was painful, so they just went with the chair. John had to carry him in the chair downstairs; and pushed him out into the street.

"So, where do you want to go?"

Sherlock was hard-pressed to think of a place he normally visited that was wheelchair-friendly. "Don't know. Speedy's? Maybe just wander." He fought to wiggle his toes. "Been trapped here too long."

Out the door they went, and Sherlock got the occasional strange look as they entered the next-door cafe—not that Sherlock cared one way or another what strangers thought of him. The television was on as he leaned over the table to sip his beverage.

"And now to breaking news. There's been a break in the case of the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer's murders. We take you to the live press coverage."

Lestrade: "…injuries were severe and he died in the hospital during surgery."

Reporter: "What type of injuries?"

Lestrade: "I'm not at liberty to say. Just be glad he's off the streets."

Anchor: "That concludes the press conference. To recap, it appears that the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer, who went only by the name Avery, was wounded severely and died in the hospital."

Anchor 2: "Thank God that's over. I know I won't be the only one sleeping better tonight."

Sherlock smiled weakly. "Good old Lestrade," he managed. "A misint…misinterpret…misinterpretable truth is easier to sell…than a lie." He sniffed at John's snack. "Smells delicious."

"Well, I guess it's for the best. I shall miss him though, he was nice in his own way; I mean, aside from the killing and the infatuation. If he were another person and not using your body, I may have been able to befriend him." John sighed into his cup of tea. "What do you want to eat?" Sherlock gestured towards a bacon sandwich. "I'm glad you're eating more than usual." He smiled over the table. "I'm glad this whole ordeal is over, I'm starting to feel myself again. No more voice." Sherlock had already finished his sandwich. "Shall we go to the park? I haven't been there for a while."

"I think I'd like that." Now that he had some decent food inside him, Sherlock was finding it easier still to speak and to move, although using his arms for more than thirty seconds was still a chore. "Like saying hello again."

When they arrived at the park on this busy Saturday afternoon, however, Sherlock tensed up. His hypersenses were starting to get the better of him. There were too many voices and faces and colours, and he could tell everything about everyone that walked by. His mind was normally quite good at dulling anything he wasn't trying to see, but he hadn't recovered that ability quite yet and everything bombarded him. He jumped at a barking dog, squinted at a woman in a tie-dye t-shirt, and flinched at a child's happy squeal. He weakly put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. "Too much. Too much. I'm not ready."

"Home?" John nodded in the direction of Baker street. Sherlock nodded.

When they got home, Sherlock wanted to go to bed. He looked tired. John tucked him in.

He was shouting for his teddy. John took Hamish to him. "I feel replaced." He laughed. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching him drift off.

Sherlock drooled in his sleep as his brain continued to patch itself back together. His dreams were still full of pinball-machine-like noises and sounds, but they were growing less and less painful. He even muttered things every so often, oddly more articulate than he was when awake.

"Où est John?"

"Need detergent."

"Mon seul ami."

"Put it in the microwave."

Strangely, the things he was saying had nothing to do with the abstract images in his head. It was like his mouth decided to practise speaking now that the rest of him was taking a break.

"Mais il ne peut pas être le meurtri…er?" He opened his eyes, wide awake, realizing he'd been speaking in the night. Forgetting how confused his brain was, he tried to stand up and once again hit the floor with a resounding thud and groan.

"Sherlock?" John looked around confused. He'd got into the bed with Sherlock, to make sure he was okay. He pulled him up onto the bed. "If you want me to help you to walk, I will." Sherlock was screaming with frustration. "It's okay, really, come here." He sat on the bed and rested Sherlock's head in his lap. "Shh, you'll get better. I promise."

"I need to do it on my own!" Sherlock hit his pillow. "I need to be able to walk again without help. How am I supposed to do my job like this?" His fit froze. "I can speak again," he observed. "Interesting. My brain must have fixed its wiring as I slept." He tried to run his hand through his hair, but his arm wouldn't cooperate and halfway through it just sort of flopped. "We need to work on physical therapy. Arms and legs and fingers. Make them work until they respond properly."

"How" John thought about getting his violin. "I feel as if I can't help you at all. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to get you something? Honest, I'll help all I ca-" Sherlock had strained his arm to cover John's mouth. "Right" John mumbled from under his hand.

"Give me challenges." His arm lost strength and Sherlock hit himself in the face. "Tasks. Goals. An error-free blog post an hour. Walking a certain distance. Holding things for a certain period of time. You're a doctor. You can think of something. Besides, catching me when I fall ought to be useful—I don't fancy giving myself a concussion." He grimaced. His limbs were tingly as they are when they've been asleep. "I need the pain. It focuses my mind." He was very frustrated that, although his language skills seemed to have repaired, his arms and legs still weren't working, though his fingers were still more agile than yesterday.

"I.. I don't know." John stammered, his mind taking a wrong turn. "Um.. How about trying to play your violin?" Sherlock looked pained at this suggestion. "No? How about trying to write your name? Walking from here to the fridge? Um, I don't know." His mind was fuzzy.

"Violin would require my arms as well as fingers. We should focus on only one muscle group at a time. Less exhausting. But I do agree with writing my name for hands and wrists practise. Probably walking to the bedroom door first; the refrigerator might be a bit ambitious yet." Sherlock sat himself up, which didn't require too much effort. He waited until John was in position to catch him, and he hoisted himself to his feet.

Three hours later and the most Sherlock had managed unaided was four small steps, not quite enough to reach the door. He'd had to fight the urge to shout at himself for his body's inadequacies and more than once muttered darkly. The sun had begun to set as he gasped, face red from exertion. "I'm not stopping until I do this," he panted, but John's firm stare told him he wouldn't be trying anything else for the rest of the evening.

It had been about four hours, and Sherlock had made it to the kitchen. He's collapsed a few times, and John had to catch him. He was red in the face, and a few times he screamed in anger, or what was probably pain. When he'd made it to the fridge, he slid down it. "You made it." John smiled, picking him up. "So, what do you want to do now? You must be tired." He turned the kettle on, tea would cheer him up.

Sherlock was panting. "I don't…I don't know. Writing. Typing. Have to regain my speed. I hardly want to type like you for the rest of my life." He hadn't meant it as an insult, and honestly hadn't seen it as such, just an observation on John's typing speed. Besides, he was cross and determined. "I don't want to sleep until I'm back at least at fifty words per minute." It was an impossible goal, considering he was barely at an error-proof ten, and he knew it. He partly just wanted to see how far John would let him push himself.

"You can type up a text post, and then you're stopping. It's not going to help, and that's my medical opinion. You're going to hurt yourself." He pursed his lips. "Move over here." He sat him at the table and put the laptop in front of him. "Right, tea." John made it and put it next to him. He didn't move the cup, until he'd typed up the post. By which time, the tea was cold.

**Sherlock's blog:**

As part of my physical therapy, I am typing this post.

Not sure what I'm meant to be typing about.

I'm slowly regaining my faculties in hands and legs, though they are still quite weak. I'm certainly not up to playing the violin anytime soon, unless there's a similar neurological rapid-healing effect such as my speech centres experienced overnight.

John's made me promise to stop attempting to force healing for the day after I type this. It took me seven hours to walk to the refrigerator unaided. I think I'll use that as my goal—the time it takes to walk from my room to the kitchen needs to be under two minutes before I'll call myself recovered. I need to be able to play Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, all forty-five minutes of it, straight, before I'll consider myself fully healed in the arms and fingers department.

It's taken half an hour to write this. Now my tea's cold.

Once he'd finished his post, Sherlock grabbed for the cup and managed to take a sip before wincing at the temperature. "Can't you reheat this?" He was snappish, understandably, and waited impatiently for John's answer. He knew John thought he'd exerted himself too much for the day, and secretly Sherlock agreed, but he was Sherlock and therefore not going to simply go to bed without some sort of fight. It'd been awful when he was a child, insisting on staying up throughout the night just because his parents had not-so-politely told him to go to bed.

Realizing that John was probably not going to reheat the tea, Sherlock decided to try to make his way back to his room by himself. He made it for five steps before collapsing to his knees, and crawled the rest of the way across the rug before his arms and legs gave out completely. He grunted a protest as John lifted him off the floor and half-dragged him to his bed.

"Do you want me to stay?" John had changed Sherlock into his pajamas, (a struggle, as he kept insisting he could do it himself; but his arms wouldn't work when he tried) and tucked him in. Sherlock pulled him down onto the bed as if to say yes. John got under the covers. "I don't know why we have separate rooms." He confessed- ever since they got together, they always seemed to share a bed.

John couldn't sleep. His medication had caused him to have an odd sleeping pattern; he'd sleep one out of three days. He lay awake. Sherlock was refusing to sleep- probably because he felt as if he could try more to get better, but John refused. "No. You're staying here. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Knowing it was useless to argue, Sherlock sighed. "Fine. But you need to sleep too." Sherlock couldn't sleep because his mind was whirring. In addition to the strange lights and sounds in his head, he felt as though there were ants crawling all over him. But he did eventually fall asleep for a few hours.

Just at sunrise, though, he jerked awake, jumped out of bed, and, in a barely controlled flailing fit, ran around the room—actual proper running—calling John's name as if searching for him before running into the door and falling down.

"Ungh."

"What on earth…" John sat up. "Can you stand up?" Sherlock gingerly stood up, smiling. "So, what was all that about?" He was laughing; he'd never seen anything like it.

Sherlock walked into the living room, without trouble. "I think you're okay!" John cheered. He passed him his violin as he slumped into his chair. "I'll make you some tea."

Sherlock managed to lift his violin, but it still was a struggle. "I can reliably move my arms and legs now, though they're still quite weak. I think perhaps what awakened me was a spurt of adrenaline. I had a rather unpleasant dream. It wasn't so much a dream as a collection of memories." He paused. "Of Moriarty. Of every instant I ever saw him. Right up until—you know."

"Are you.. Okay?" John managed to get out. He hated hearing the name, it made him shudder. He never went into detail with Sherlock about what had happened to him. Sherlock had been very matter-of-fact about it, but John had stayed silent. He'd not told anybody; not even his therapist. He'd not been to her for a long long time.

Sherlock noticed the expression on his face.

"What happened, John? What happened that week when he had you?" Sherlock had his analyzing face on, detached. It was the only way he himself could think about his time without feeling things he didn't want to feel. "You know you can tell me. I have to understand." He put his violin down and managed to convince his arms to assume his thinking pose.

"Nothing new. He'd already subjected me to it all before the pool. You should see my back." He felt sick as he thought of the scars from the bite marks on his back. He swallowed, as if to make the feeling go away. He and Sherlock had obviously not had sex since it happened, whenever John felt as if he could try- it was never out of his own choice. "I.. I um. I don't know really. I'm scared." Sherlock frowned. "No, I mean. I feel scared to be close to you like that had scarred me, mentally. There's a little part of me, and yes that's me, that is always telling me you'll find me.. repulsive. I find myself repulsive; I allowed him to do it to me."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. On the one hand, he needed concrete sight and proof of how badly John had been injured, but he also didn't want to hurt John's feelings. "I could never find you repulsive," he said softly and flatly. "Not ever. No matter what's been done to your body. It's your mind I care for the most. And you only permitted it because you felt you had no choice. It was the same reason I—the reason I exchanged myself for you. There was no other way." Awkwardly he reached toward John and embraced him. "I need to know, John, I need to see and understand. You were there when I was released but I couldn't be there for you. I don't know what they've done to you physically. I have to know. Please understand that."

"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock nodded. John stood up and turned around, taking off his shirt. He knew how bad the marks were. He didn't hear any response from Sherlock. John turned back around, still shirtless. Moriarty had carved a large 'M' into the chest area where his heart was. He slumped down into the chair. "I don't think I need to explain.. the other things he did. I guess they were much the same as yours. He used you against me."

Sherlock's hands traced the scars, fingers trembling. When John had sat back down, Sherlock was deathly pale and when he spoke, his voice shook worse than his fingers had. "My God…" He thought he was going to faint. He just stared in shock for a few seconds. "What…what they did to me was far less…physical. Mental torture. But I suppose you'd noticed that." He didn't know what to do. He felt a boiling rage inside him that he hadn't felt since the mental split, and all he wanted to do was kill Moriarty. He decided that talking was probably for the best, particularly if it helped John do the same. "I'm going to…say precisely what's in my head right now. I apologize if it frightens you, but I can't not say it. I want to murder him. I want to tie him up and drip battery acid through his skull and listen to him scream in agony as he dies." He was shaking worse and worse, the violent rage threatening to knock him into full-blown hysteria.

"And then I want to…" He didn't have a finish to his thought that could be expressed in words. The image in his head was one of raw brutality, blood and body parts scattered as if by explosion. "I want to…" He wiped his face, having only noticed the tears of pure hatred streaming down. "Sorry. Sorry. I just…hate. I haven't known hate. Not like this. Not ever."

"It's okay, Sherlock.. I can't even remember it. I'm worried about.. having sex, in case I do. It's not you, at all, it's just. He wasn't even remorseful. I know we're in an adult relationship, but.. I don't know. I feel like a teenager again, like I've never done this before. I'm scared, terrified."

Sherlock's eyes were hollow and his voice was breaking. "I envy you. How much of a blessing it must be to have your mind protect you from those memories. I remember everything that they did to me. Everything. And when I look at your wounds, I can tell the whole story of that horrible week. I can tell by the healing pattern in what order they were inflicted. I can hear the screams of agony in my head. I can hear Moriar—" He cut off, unable to continue. "It's the greatest curse of a mind like mine. But thank you for telling me. I needed to know." He was shaking, staring at John. He didn't tell his only friend that he could even feel the pain in his mind.

"I just feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I hate looking in the mirror, and when I look at you, I wonder why you want me here. Why do you?"

"Because I need you," Sherlock said simply. "When you vanished, when Moriarty had you, and I didn't know where you were, I felt lost. I panicked. I didn't sleep at all." He buried his face in his hands. "If you need to…to take a break from me, from us, I understand and will support you fully. I will, honestly, be astonished if you don't want to take a holiday without me, considering what I've put you through, directly or indirectly." He desperately hoped John would refuse this idea, but at the same time, knew that it might help him to take some time out of their hectic life.

"No, that's the opposite of what I want. That's all I needed to hear." John smiled. And it was. He'd wanted nothing more but for Sherlock to say he needed him. "Do _you_ want to get away from me?" He swallowed, nervously. "Or maybe, we should go on holiday together? Somewhere of your choice."

"I miss France. When I was a child, my grandmother used to take us there for the summer. She had a house not far from Marseilles and Mycroft and I would sleep in a little barn she'd updated with all the modern amenities. We each had a room, a place where no one was allowed but us. I used to read for hours." Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing the memory. "I would lay in the grass on the sunniest days and just watch the clouds." He opened his eyes to look at John. "When I had that night of utter peace, on the sleeping pill and the antipsychotic, I dreamed we were there." He stared into the distance. "It could do us good, a holiday in France." He frowned but chuckled. "Look at us, discussing something so ordinary, so common. Like normal people."

"I'll book us tickets, if you really want to go. It sounds lovely." John stopped. "Do you want to go somewhere that special to you with me?" It seemed a stupid question when he said it out loud, but it needed to be addressed. What if he ruined Sherlock's love for the place?

"Well, seeing as how it's highly unlikely my deceased grandmother is going to rent the barn out, that's obviously out of the question." He smiled, starting to feel hopeful that he could find something to bring him peace. "But I am comfortably familiar with that area, so something in that vicinity would be preferable." He grew distant again. "Twenty-three years since I was last there. Old Louis probably won't remember me, even if he's still alive. He'd be ninety seven." Louis had been one of the most beloved citizens, the owner of a tiny bistro the Holmes brothers had frequented as children, and Sherlock had never found anywhere with a better croque-monsieur. "It would bring me a bit of peace."

"If your sure. Maybe you should decide how we get there. I'd say ferry, but it's up to you. When do you want to go?" This was odd, for them; Sherlock was right. They were almost normal. "I'm looking forward to it." John grinned at him. "Really."

"The weekend? Or is that too soon?" Sherlock stood up, and had started running through a list of things he'd need to pack in his head. "A week to start. No more than a month." He was pacing, and then he stumbled. "Not quite full faculties," he groaned. "Thank you for this." He clearly also expected John to pay as well.

"This weekend sounds good. Tea?" John had already boiled the kettle. "But, the weekend is in two days. So you should book the travel, here's my card." He slid it over to him. "Find somewhere nice for us to stay."

"I'm hardly going to find us somewhere unpleasant," he pointed out. He opened his laptop and filled in the information required before handing John's card back to him. He felt a tingle of panic when he momentarily couldn't spell his own name, but chose not to trouble John with it as the confusion only lasted an instant. He reassured himself that, like his temporary clumsiness, it was a a direct result of his neurosurgery. "Got us a hotel overlooking the beach." Sherlock felt reassured by the fact that he was going somewhere that he'd only ever been happy. "A week on the French Riviera, what could be better for healing emotional scars?" He smiled. "Plane leaves Friday night."


	4. Holiday in France

"Sherlock, are you coming to watch this or not?" John called from Sherlock's bed. His mood was dark, and he wanted nothing more than to hide away. Sherlock strolled in and slid into the bed. He wanted to tell him everything, but Sherlock would probably get worried- John could deal with this, after all; he'd suffered with depression most of his life without help.

"Mm, yes, coming." He handed John the teddy bear he'd given Sherlock earlier. "Hug Hamish. It helps." He felt strange, watching John go through a black moment. Last time he'd seen John like this, it had been from afar and he didn't know what to do. His brow furrowed as he was certain he'd made some sort of mistake. "Um, sorry," he said as he propped himself up on pillows. "Just rest your head on my chest and hug Hamish. Then let's watch this film. I need you to be alright." It was the most eloquence he could muster. "That's why we're going to France." As much as he hated to admit it, he cared deeply for John and he found the depression very distressing.

"I know, and I'm looking forward to it, but I still feel awful." He wasn't really watching the film, instead, he was listening to Sherlock's heartbeat. He really didn't know what to say to him. He couldn't explain what was going on inside his head, and he couldn't well unload his troubles on him.

John sat bolt upright. "Sherlock, you know how when you were first going through the Avery thing, and I said I got a letter? Well I want to talk to you about it…"

Sherlock frowned. He didn't actually remember any such thing, but in fairness, he did have other things on his mind at the time. He sat up straight now, paused the film, and turned to John, hopefully signalling to him that he was giving his rare full attention. "Go on." His voice was emotionally neutral, and only his eyes betraying his worry.

"The army want me to go back, part time…" He began, "They somehow found out that my limp was psychosomatic, and they said I have three months to decide, and it's been one." Sherlock looked away from him. "You have to understand something; it was my life before I got sent home. I loved it, it was my passion. I really want your opinion." John swallowed, nervously. "God, I wish I hadn't said anything."

Sherlock's voice was trembling slightly. "Why? You were discharged honourably. They even pinned a medal on you—yes, I know you haven't told me but I got bored one evening and researched you." He tried to smile, but he couldn't.

Horrible scenarios began playing out in his head. A news report that a small group of soldiers had been killed—no details given. Phone calls and letters and visits from strangers telling him John had been killed in action. A funeral; John was to be buried with honours. Fighting sympathy letters because they'd remind him of what he'd lost. Nightmares of John's final moments. The knowledge he'd never gotten to say goodbye. Himself alone again, nothing but a slab of granite to talk to.

"It's your choice," said his words, but his eyes pleaded with John to promise he wouldn't put himself in the middle of a war.

"It'd probably be too different now anyway." He sighed. He knew Sherlock didn't want him to go, it was obvious. He rested his head back on his chest. "For now, you're stuck with me." His mind was spinning. "If you need me like you say you do, then I've no reason to go."

Sherlock closed his eyes, burying the near-panic those visions had brought him. "Good. Thank you." He unpaused the DVD and finished the film, but not before he'd lain his arm across John's shoulder in an unconscious gesture of protectiveness. By the time it had finished, Sherlock had fallen asleep, the now-familiar pinball machine dreams pinging around his brain. He didn't normally fall asleep during films, but he'd allowed himself to do so this time because he was in a hurry to get to France where they might find some measure of peace.

John lay awake, listening to Sherlock breathing. He felt guilty, what if he'd made the decision to leave? What would Sherlock have done? Would he have gone about his life the way it was before he met John? Would he miss him at all? John would return to the way he was, because he would have to. But what about when he came home? Would Sherlock have moved on? John would then be alone, wishing he could fade into the beige hotel room walls he'd be confined to.

The moonlight was shining brightly through the window, across Sherlock's face, illuminating his features. John thought deeply for what must have been hours before Sherlock woke. "I don't know why I even thought about it." John smiled up at him.

Sherlock sighed. Though he'd only just woken, his mind was, as usual, running in circles. "Probably because it meant so much to you." He shifted, somewhat stiff from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. He hadn't been under the blankets—he hadn't needed them as John's body kept him warm. Sherlock could see that he hadn't slept much. "Would you like me to make some tea so you can take your medicine?" He frowned. "When did we get so domestic? It's _wretched_."

"Yes please," he sighed, sleepily. "And probably when we moved in together, it just happens."  
>John sat down onto the couch, flicking the television on.<p>

"The body of a female, believed to be the mother of two, was found here, at the museum last night. DI G. Lestrade speaks."  
>"Sherlock! Come and see this." Sherlock popped his head around the door. "Before you get in too deep, we are <em>not<em> cancelling the holiday."

Sherlock stared at the telly, frozen. On the one hand, he desperately needed a case that wasn't perpetrated by his own split personality (which, thank goodness, showed no signs of reemergence), but on the other, he needed to get away from London's troubles. "Boring," he finally said, pouring water in the teapot. "If Lestrade needed me, he would have texted."

"Fair enough. I should go and finish packing, and so should you." Sherlock put the tea in his hand. "Thank you." He sat down next to him, resting his head on his shoulder. "I'm really looking forward to going to France, and I won't even go sightseeing, you can take me to your favorite places." John smiled, this was him making up for even suggesting going back to the army.

"It's my pleasure." Sherlock smiled gently, trying to ignore what was on the telly, but he couldn't. He picked up his phone and sent a text.

Night guard.  
>SH<p>

He stood up and hurried to his room to pack. A few moments of thumping and crashing later, and Sherlock poked his head back out of his door.

"We need to do some shopping. I don't have swim trunks."

"You? Swimming?" John giggled at the thought, he imagined Sherlock flailing his arms around. "I suppose we could go now? I just need to get ready."

When John was ready, he walked out to find Sherlock making more tea. "Hello." John hugged him from behind and stood on his tiptoes to nuzzle into his neck. "Want to go now?"

"Mm, yes, after my tea." Secretly Sherlock was worried about his reaction. Last time they'd been out in public, he'd gotten sensory overload as his brain wasn't yet recovered from his operation. So he sipped his tea, hoping the combination stimulant/sedative would help.

He finished and straightened his jacket. It was a balmy day, so he decided against wearing his coat or scarf. "Coming?" Sherlock bounded down the stairs, hailed a cab, and only after getting in realized he had no idea where to even get swim trunks as he hadn't owned any since university.

They pulled up in town, and got out. "So did you have an idea on where you wanted to go?" Sherlock looked confused, he hadn't planned. "Right okay, I know where to go."

John pulled on his hand and led him towards the sports shop. Sherlock looked disgusted as he went into the shop; it was full of teenage boys shouting at the big screen in the corner because their football team lost. He sighed, dull. "We need to go upstairs."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at them. "Strange how they can have so much emotional investment in something that matters so little." As they went up the lift, Sherlock shut his eyes and took a deep breath. His sensory management was still slightly faulty, particularly in the visual range, but he was managing.

He looked at the racks for some time before choosing a simple pair of dark blue trunks. He went into the dressing room to try them on, but felt a little awkward about it. Nevertheless, they fit as he thought they would, and he was ready to purchase them.

"There. That's that." He carried the bag, fist clenched tightly around it as the sheer amount of bright colours in the swimwear area was starting to assault him. "Is there anything else you can think of that we need? It's been years since I went on holiday, not since…" _Not since I spent the whole of what should have been eleventh year romping around the dark alleyways of Europe and getting into incalculable trouble with various organizations of questionable morality, as well as encountering substances that to this day, I struggle with._ "Not since I was sixteen."

"I don't think we have to get anything else, I have everything. Do you?" They were walking out of the store. "We should go for a coffee or something." He gestured to a small cafe nearby.

When they had their coffee in front of them, John went on to ask Sherlock about his holidays as a child. They sounded happy, much more than John's. "I wish I'd had ones like that." he sighed.

"They were…restful. I'd spend all night just reading whatever I wanted, and sometimes falling asleep in the field in the middle of the next afternoon." Sherlock sipped his coffee. "Grand-mère didn't live in Marseilles. She lived about an hour northeast, further into the countryside. She made jams, the best you'd ever tasted. She'd had the loft of the barn converted into two bedrooms, one for myself and one for Mycroft. No one but us was allowed on that landing." He leaned back in his chair. "There was a small bistro in the little village nearest us. Louis, the owner, made the most delicious croques-monsieur you could ever imagine. He'd tell us stories, obviously false ones, but we listened anyway because he was so kind." Sherlock smiled at the memory. "I've never seen anything so beautiful as a cloudless summer's day in the French Rivera." He looked down, a little sadly. "She died the year Mycroft went to university. I don't know what happened to her property."

"The next time I went back to France…I'd run away from home. I realized when I got there that anyone still there either wouldn't remember me, was dead, or would tell my parents where I was. So I started to travel the whole continent. Sixteen year old boy, wandering for a year through a portion of the world traumatized by the Cold War, a conflict which was only just in the past." He looked away. "Mm." He didn't want to share much about that year. He fell silent and drank more of his coffee.

"It's good that you still want to go back." He sipped his coffee, "I feel as if it's something personal to you, and it sounds silly but, I feel privileged to be going with you." He felt his face hotting up with embarrassment. "I sound stupid." Sherlock smirked. "You know, I remember my holidays. Me and Harry used to fight all the time, and my parents didn't spend time with us. We were basically left to our own devices, which usually meant she'd go and chat up the local girls whilst I was on the lookout for our parents." He sighed, he'd never enjoyed a holiday.

"I feel honoured that you are accepting my offer," Sherlock said somewhat sheepishly. He sighed, coffee finished, and stood to leave. "Shall we go back home and finish packing? I take it you'll want to bring all that photographic equipment." He raised his eyebrows in a gesture of inquiry as he threw his cup away.

"I already packed them." John admitted, laughing. "The more funny pictures to remember the event, the better."

When they got back to baker street, they went upstairs to find their bags already packed. "What on earth.." There was a note on top of their suitcases, which had been placed near the door.

Dear boys, I know you've been having a rough time lately, so I thought I'd spare you the trouble of packing, just this once. Have a nice holiday!  
>Mrs Hudson xx<p>

"Bless her." John smiled. "Well then, we're all set!" This cheered him up greatly. "So, all we have to do is wait for tomorrow now."

"What shall we do? I'm afraid I fell asleep at the end of that Harry Potter film. What's the next one? I mean, we don't have to watch a film, but there's not much else to do since everything's packed." The coffee was making Sherlock a little fidgety. "Or do you want to just…talk? If you want, we can have—what do they call it? Honesty hour. We take turns asking questions and the other must answer completely and truthfully. Unless, of course, you don't want to." He shook his head as if to clear it. The bright colours in the shop hadn't worn out of his head quite yet, and the pinging in his mind like pinballs kept him from fully focussing.

"Okay then, I like that idea." John smiled. "I'll start." He got comfy on the couch, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his coat. Sherlock sat down opposite him. "So, do you miss anything about your ex girlfriend? You know, the one who you were with years ago." He rolled his eyes around the room, trying to look innocent.

Sherlock wondered how to phrase his answer. "Yes. Natalia was…spirited, intelligent. Fierce. I met her in Berlin. We travelled through the ashes of the Soviet Union together. She was never afraid to say what she thought, no matter what anyone else said, and she was almost as clever as I am. That's why I…that's why I cared for her. And I told her. She reciprocated. Perhaps it was nothing more than the hormone responses of a sixteen-year-old boy to an eighteen-year-old young woman. Perhaps it was something deeper. We had five glorious months." He looked sad, almost yearning. "When we arrived in Budapest, she…fell for a mobster, and he for her. She never officially left me. She spent more and more time with him, and he wasn't fond of what, in his mind, was a child poking around in his business. The last I saw of her, she stood watching as her new boyfriend tried to beat me to a pulp. I woke up on the docks the next morning. I never found out what happened to her." He looked down for a moment. "To answer your question, yes, I miss her fiery, passionate intellect."

"My turn." He smirked, trying to find a question that he didn't already know the answer to. He looked at John with his squint that indicated he was reading every detail about John. He folded his hands. "What is your biggest regret in making our friendship into a courtship?" He knew John wasn't going to want to answer that question, but that was rather the point of their Honesty Afternoon—strip away any protection and get to the heart and soul of things.

John sat there wide eyed. Well, it seemed like he could never compete with her. "I regret admitting my emotions too early, I guess." He shrugged. This was true. "It made me feel vulnerable. Not to say that I regret having them, because I don't." He smiled up. It was a simple enough answer. "Is there anything you don't like about me?"

"You're a bit slower on the uptake than I would like sometimes, you shout as if I should already be aware of certain social failings when I'm not or just plain don't see the point, and you're constantly down in the dumps, which brings me down." The words had come out a bit too quickly. "Um. That was…not how I meant it." Honesty Afternoon was already starting to go wrong. "Your good qualities far outweigh any downsides you have. Mm." He braced himself for the impact of either a fist or violent words.

"I'm sorry." John soothed. "Your turn." He was mildly upset by the fact that he made Sherlock feel bad, but he decided to let it drop.

"Yes, sorry. Um." Sherlock shifted awkwardly for a few moments. "I suppose it would be better for me to explore memories rather than emotions. You know how uncomfortable strong emotions make me." He looked at John carefully. "What is your earliest memory?"

"Hm.. probably when I was a toddler and Harry shoved me off a swing. That's about it. I just remember falling, but in my head it seems to be in slow motion." He laughed. "Not sure why, it's really weird. What about yours?"

"Perhaps strong memories of family are inherently ingrained into our minds. My first memory is of Mycroft lifting me from my crib and taking me to his room, poking me gently with a tongue depressor. I think he was trying to figure out how I worked." Sherlock smiled gently—it was plain this is not an unpleasant memory for him, just Holmeses doing what Holmeses do, experimenting with any new object. "I don't even think I was a year old."

Realizing it was his turn for a question, Sherlock said simply: "Tell me about the first time you were sent to the headmaster's office. Don't bother denying that it happened—I know you too well."

"Oh, um.." John flushed pink. "Probably being bullied for having a lesbian sister, or for being bisexual, at the time, I thought it was a phase. I used to get it on a daily basis, until I headbutted somebody and broke his nose, which was an accident, as i only meant to shut him up." John sniffed. "He was a bit of a prick though. But yeah. When they all found out I liked another boy, they made it their duty to ruin my life. After that I sort of grew up only getting into relationships with girls, until now, obviously." He smiled at him. "Tell me about your most treasured memory."

Sherlock thought. There weren't many memories he cherished enough to make it easy. "I…" He swallowed, feeling the unwanted prick of emotion and knowing it was about to make his voice shake. "Knowing that you never thought I was a fake. Hearing you…hearing you at my grave. It meant a lot. I knew I'd made the best choice of a friend I ever could have." He stopped speaking, flashing back to that moment. He could see John, could hear him in the cemetery, knew everything John had said when he thought Sherlock was dead. Sherlock covertly wiped a tear.

"Um. Tell me about your first date."

"God.. It was.._dreadful. _The girl tried to make a move on me and I elbowed her in the face by accident, and her nose bled everywhere… My past is awfully violent." John winced. "But yeah, awful. Tell me about your first kiss?"

"The first kiss I ever had or the first kiss I initiated?" Seeing John wasn't going to say anything until he'd answered the question, Sherlock continued. "Natalia kissed me as we crossed the Albanian/Kosovo border at night. It was a year after Kosovo was declared its own state, and things were volatile. There were explosions nearby and she thought that we might not survive the night. So she kissed me." As cliché as it sounded, Sherlock's first kiss went off with a bang. "And as for the first kiss I initiated…well, you were there." That first evening after they had that poolside confrontation with Moriarty, Sherlock's unemotional veneer had cracked under stress, and in his relief, he'd kissed John. He'd invented his own signature kiss which was barely more than a brush on the lips and then quickly retreated out of embarrassment. They'd already been dating (or "courting" as Sherlock preferred) secretly for some time.

There was a few seconds' silence before Sherlock thought of another question. "Why the clarinet?"

John smiled. "I was forced into it by my mum. She said it was that or the tuba, and I wasn't going to do that. It was awfully heavy and stupid." John looked at his watch. "We should be leaving now, we're going to be late."

He and Sherlock stood up and put on their shoes and jackets. They pulled the suitcases downstairs and hailed a cab. "I'm quite exited really." John squealed like an exited child.

"I am, too, to be honest. Of course, not particularly looking forward to the queue at the airport, but who is?" Sherlock climbed into the cab. He suddenly hoped his mind would be prepared for the sheer volume of sensory input he'd be subjected to at the terminal, but if a clothing shop was enough to almost overwhelm him, he wasn't too confident. He looked out the window, as if promising London he'd be back.

They arrived in France without incident and checked into their rather posh hotel—Sherlock didn't want anything less than the best. They slept quietly, peacefully, worn out from everything and anticipating the next week.

"So, where are we going first?" John poked Sherlock awake. "Come onnnn, I want to go somewhere!" He jumped up and pulled on his clothes.

Sherlock blinked sleepily, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't in London. But only for an instant—full memory restored itself quickly. He felt refreshed, alive, just being in Marseilles, and he was glad that John seemed to be enjoying it too, even if he was acting a little childish.

"I think we ought to have breakfast first, and you should take your medicine. Wouldn't want the Moriarty in your head to ruin our holiday." _It ought to be the other way around,_ he thought rather sadly. _John should be the one acting as nurse, not me._ But he twitched his mouth into a smile. "Then we can go parasailing. Or something."

"Right, I forgot about that." He pulled his pills from his bag and swallowed one. "Ugh. Okay, do you fancy going anywhere for breakfast or do you just wanna stay here?" John smiled exitedly at Sherlock. "I'm sorry I'm being like this, I've just never had a nice holiday."

"No, it's interesting, it's different." It was like seeing a hidden side of John, one that undoubtedly had long evaporated with the horrors of war. "There was a cafe a block away. They advertised for crepes and I think that would be rather nice." He opened his suitcase and changed into his suit, the white shirt standing out against the black fabric.

Maybe it was the French air, but Sherlock was feeling oddly physical—he reached out to hold John's hand. He blushed for a few seconds after catching himself and pulling away. "Um. Right."

"No, it's okay." John pulled his hand back. "Come on, lets go." They walked out of the hotel and down the road. There _was_ a little cafe on the next block. "Right, um. You should go and order things. I can't speak french." John smirked. He had learned it at school, but he was far too interested in the girl who sat next to him for three years, therefore he'd not learned anything beyond saying his name and age.

Sherlock left John to find a table. It was one of those cafes where you wait in line, order, and have it brought to you. "Un café au lait, un café avec du sucre, et deux crêpes, s'il vous plaît," he said in perfect French, after waiting in line for a good ten minutes.

They weren't the only ones there for holiday fun, Sherlock noted. There was an elderly couple, clearly ill and on a last holiday of their lives. A gaggle of American teenagers sat in the corner, laughing loudly. Of course, there were businessmen as well—a German was on his phone discussing financial moves, and a Greek woman sat, reading the newspaper. Then, of course, there were himself and John. He smiled, feeling oddly melancholy (or perhaps too happy to make sense of his emotions). "Thank you, John," he said for no reason in particular.

"What for?" John smiled up at him. He was enjoying himself so far, the cafe was small and bright, like Marseilles itself. The air felt like a fan on a hot day, even with the sunny weather. "I love it here."

"I don't know. Everything? For putting up with me. For always trusting me." Sherlock shook his head. "Sorry, I…" He cleared his throat just in time for their food to arrive. "French crepes," he said after his first bite. "Lovely!" He ate the rest of his food in silence, watching John with his customary stillness. "You're so happy," he observed quietly. "It's nice. Strange, but nice."

"I am, of course." John said mid-mouthful. "Why wouldn't I be happy on a holiday with you? And in sich a nice place too. I used to go to spain, you know. I hated it there." He sipped on his drink. "Thank you, for bringing me here." He smiled at him, and held his hand from across the table.

"Thank you for coming." Sherlock finished his coffee. "What first? Parasailing? Swimming? Or shall we go to the village my grandmother lived in?" He smiled. "Yes, let's do that."

It was simple to find a train. The same train he'd always taken, more or less. "Train leaves in half an hour. I think I needed this. I know I did." He stood up, threw away his empty cup, and looked for a ride to the station.

John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder when they'd found the train. He was enjoying himself, and it was so nice to be away from London. Sherlock was telling him all about the town, it's history and it's culture, John was nodding all the while but really he was just looking at his face and smiling. "You're very attractive." he grinned at him.

Sherlock paused mid-word. "Um, that's really not my point. You haven't been listening, have you?" He sighed, slightly wearily. It was time to get off the train, now, and Sherlock took a deep breath. "Lestrade was right. It really is good to get London out of your lungs."

A woman about Sherlock's age came running over to them and hugged Sherlock. "Mon dieu! Sherlock!" It took a minute to register who she was. "Claire?" The woman nodded. "Oui! You are…you are the same!" Her English was broken, but not entirely illegible.

"Hardly. It's been decades." Smiling at her, he turned to John. "John, this is Claire Renoir. She lived next door to my grandmother. This is John Watson, my—" He hesitated slightly. "My friend."

"Nice to meet you." John smiled, but when she looked away, he glared at Sherlock. He wasn't registering anything that was going on, except from when Sherlock translated a question from Claire; then he would smile and reply.

After they had spoken to her, Sherlock said he wanted to show John somewhere. He didn't hold onto his hand on the way, instead, John ignored him.

"Peut-on visiter la maison de ma grand-mère?" Sherlock looked hopeful. "Oui, bien sûr!" Sherlock grinned boyishly. Claire led them to her car and Sherlock rode shotgun, chatting away in French, catching up on the missed decades between them. He barely even noticed John's sulk. The car pulled up outside a modest house with a barn. "Claire owns it now," he said to John. "Come on."

They approached the barn, and Sherlock swung the door open and climbed up a metal set of rungs to the loft above. He opened a door on the left with some difficulty (the hinges were rusty), and looked into the darkened room before switching on the light. A tear fell from his cheek. "No one's ever been in here except for Grand-mère and myself." The dust was thick. The books on the shelf were all about chemistry or beekeeping, the walls were the same colour green as the green wall in Baker Street. The roof sloped downward, the window at the end, and the little desk had a framed photograph of Sherlock, sitting proudly. Sherlock passed to the bed and sat down, running his fingers along the bedsheets. "My childhood," he said softly.

John decided to let his sulk drop. This was clearly personal to Sherlock, and he wouldn't have just brought anybody here. Sherlock had sat on the bed, tears still rolling from his eyes, he patted the space beside him. John sat down, and hugged him. "Thank you." He said, muffled from his chest. "I'm so happy you brought me here, but why me?"

"I don't have anyone else. I've always been alone. Even as a child, I always felt like I didn't have anyone on whom I could thoroughly rely. Except here. Here was my sanctum, a place where I didn't mind being on my own because everything was perfect." He was trying not to cry harder. This was a deep confession. "When I met you, I felt that comfort again. I knew that there was always one place I could go when I felt like the world was caving in on me. You." Sherlock pulled John closer. "I needed you to understand that. I needed you to realize that I _feel_ when I'm with you. I care. The last time I was here was the last time I'd laughed before that night we chased the cab. More than twenty years. I was so broken, so…so empty. I didn't know I had a hole where a heart should be. But then you were my heart, you _are_ my heart. I owe you so much, John Watson." His voice was starting to quiver. "The two things that have made me feel happy, together at once. But I'm still not. Why am I not happy right now, here, with you? All I feel is…I don't know what I feel." He loosened his grip. "I'm so privileged to have found you. Or for Mike to have found you. Whatever."

Outside, a little bird started chirping and Sherlock laughed weakly. "We're being watched," he said, looking at the window, where the bird was tilting its head at them.

"I love you." John nuzzled into him. He was crying himself, but he was trying not to show it. He looked around Sherlock's room. It was rather like the one in Baker street; filled with books and notes. "You haven't changed much, by the looks of things. He got up and nudged the picture of him on the desk. "Aw." He smiled. Sherlock rolled his eyes, smiling. "Are you sure you don't want to take some things back to Baker street?"

Sherlock walked over to the desk and opened a drawer, rubbing his eyes. "This is the past, John. It should stay in the past, for the most part. Except—" He surveyed the room. "Yes, I think we should have Claire send it to us. We can't well take it back on our flight." He smiled and walked out of the room with a deep sigh. "Come. I need to do something."

He led John to a field and laid down in the flowers and grass, silvery eyes just staring at the clouds. "Take my hand." John did as Sherlock requested, and after a few seconds of silence, Sherlock whispered "I think I know what heaven means," before bursting into tears of joy.

John giggled at him. This was the strangest thing that had ever happened. Sherlock had cried with so much emotion today, it was so much to take in.

They lay in silence for about five minutes before John said: "I thought you had your girlfriend before me, surely you didn't feel alone then?" He hugged closed to Sherlock, covering his eyes because the sun was beaming into them. "But then again, none of my girlfriends could compare to you." John felt stupid saying this, but he knew Sherlock would never use it against him.

Sherlock's reddened eyes turned back to John. "Natalia…she was…I felt like I was more her sidekick than a boyfriend. Someone who loved from the tier below. She knew where she was going, I was just tagging along. She helped my mind, not my heart. She taught me how to use the one thing I'd found to help calm my explosive brain. Our love was purely intellectual. No, John, Natalia and her cocaine aided my mind. You're slowly healing my soul."

He sat up, flower petals stuck to the back of his head. "This, John, is what I dreamed that night that was so peaceful. That perfect moment I never had until now." He reached in to brush his lips on John's.

John tangled his fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. For once, John knew he meant something to somebody, and that somebody was the only one _he_ cared for. The petals from Sherlock's hair were falling everywhere- John pulled away to giggle. Sherlock looked as if he'd been showered in them. "Come here." John picked them out for him. "I love you, Sherlock." He said, as Sherlock laid his head against his chest. "Even when you wear the silly deerstalker."

"I don't wear—ugh, never mind." He closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and fell into a sort of trancelike sleep—not asleep enough to dream, but asleep enough to be unaware that Claire was approaching after ten minutes. She looked at the two of them with a measure of disappointment.

"I was thinking of giving you lunch at Louis' bistro."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Louis is still alive?"

"Oh, yes!" Claire laughed. "He refuses to die!"

Sherlock smiled, the nearest he ever got to an honest grin. "John, have you ever had a croque-monsieur?"

"Nope." John smiled. Sherlock seemed to be shocked but elated at the fact that Louis was still alive. Sherlock pulled John up and put his arm around his waist. He looked at Claire and realized why he'd called him a friend. "Oh.." He mouthed at him, Sherlock nodded.

They walked away from the field and into the town. Sherlock made what John assumed was small talk with Claire on the way to the little house in the distance.

Once they arrived at the house-turned-restaurant, Sherlock opened the door and strode in triumphantly. Standing in the corner was a rather portly man, clearly into his nineties, cleaning a plate. Sherlock smirked and walked up to him. "Deux croques-monsieur, s'il vous plaît…Oncle Louis." At this term of address, the man looked up.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Est-ce vraiment toi?" He came around the counter and wrapped Sherlock in a full embrace, which Sherlock returned.

"Oui. C'est mon ami, John Watson. John, this is Louis, or, as he prefers, Uncle Louis. He is the owner, head chef, family friend, and local legend."

"And I have learned English!" The old man's eyes twinkled. "It is good to see you! You have grown so tall and so handsome! But where is your hat?"

"My hat? Don't start with the hat." Sherlock slumped slightly. "Why is it always the hat?"

Louis grinned. "I am teasing you as always, young Holmes. Here. Sit, and I shall make your sandwich the way you always liked."

"Hat?" John smirked at him. Sherlock sighed, clearly he was used to this mocking. John squeezed his hand from under the table, but he abruptly let go when Louis came over with their sandwiches.

Louis and Sherlock talked about when he and Mycroft used to visit, and how he would always go and read in the field. His childhood sounded lonely, detached from others, left alone with his studies. Sherlock seemed to be laughing about it though, as if it was enjoyable.  
>Louis went on to ask John about his childhood, and he explained how he never got on with his sister and how he always got into fights. Sherlock laughed at him, and went on to tell Louis about how John had been in the army, and clearly, apart from doctoring, he had been made for it since birth.<p>

They spent a few hours there, just talking and laughing, before they set off out again. They said their goodbyes, and walked out into the street. It was dusk, and the air was cooler than before. Sherlock was happy- the happiest John had ever seen him.

"Ah, I needed this!" Sherlock was uncharacteristically stating the obvious as he breathed deeply. He felt almost free, more energized than he'd been in months. "Where now, back to Marseilles? Shall we taste the French nightlife? Shall we stroll along the Mediterranean beach? Shall we see what wonders of the night await us? Or shall we just go back to our hotel?"

"It's up to you." John smiled. He grabbed on to Sherlock's hand. "I've enjoyed today, thank you. I have a feeling that this will be my fondest memory from now on." He was truly happy. A part of him wished they could stay there permanently, it was such a beautiful place.

They sat back on the train, and this time, John listened to what Sherlock was saying. He felt more close to him than ever; especially now that Sherlock was displaying public affection to him.

When they arrived back in Marseilles, it was clear that Sherlock was slightly too energetic, verging on manic, but in a good way. He looked as if he were made of springs. He was bouncing on his heels, looking up and down the streets. He stared for a second at a strangely lit building, made as if it were designed to lure in unsuspecting holiday-goers.

"What's clubbing like? I've never been clubbing. Is it fun?"

"It is if you're drunk." John laughed. "Not when you're sober. It's annoying and crowded, and you notice the smell of body odor more." Sherlock was already walking into a club. John ran after him.  
>"I'm not being here sober." He moaned. "Order me a drink?" He batted his eyelids at Sherlock. "Are you going to drink?"<p>

"Don't have to bat your eyes. Just get whatever you want, within reason. The room's on you, so it's only fair that the drinks are on me." Sherlock smiled as he opened the door. "No, I won't be drinking, you know what happens when I drink, and anyway, as you'll recall, I did rather promise I wouldn't."

He breathed deeply, forgetting that his mind was still having trouble filtering his sensory input, and strode into the mass of people and noise and smells. He stood for a moment, taking it all in. It wasn't bothering him in the slightest. A pleasant sensory overload.

He waited a suitable time for John to get something alcoholic in him before asking a favour. "Dance with me," he said. His hand was outstretched. He knew he didn't know how to dance anything but the waltz, but he was dizzy from adrenaline and didn't care.

"I'm terrible at dancing. Besides, have you seen the people dancing here?" He waved his arms around the room. He gulped down the first drink he'd got, and went to the bar for another. Surprisingly, they spoke English.

After one too many drinks, Sherlock was still jumpy. "Sherlock, I wanna dance now." John was stumbling, holding onto his shoulder.

"Thought you might," Sherlock smiled. "Though your motor coordination is seriously impaired. How many drinks have you had?" He was shouting over the music, though right now he wasn't worried so much about John's equilibrium as he was his stomach.

But then Sherlock decided it didn't matter, so he took John in hand and led him in a waltz to to some house song or other, wandering the dance floor, Sherlock ecstatic, high on adrenaline and sensory overload, John giggling like mad from the alcohol. And they kept going for hours, the music swirling around them.

Sherlock was almost incongruous in his dark suit, engaging John in a waltz while all the other people were shaking in what Sherlock thought of as an unattractive attempt at a mating dance. They stayed in the club until two in the morning before returning to their hotel in a fit of laughter. Within seconds, John was asleep and Sherlock was also tired, so fell down onto the bed, eyes closing on the day that had reminded him what fun was like.

The next morning, Sherlock woke John up with a smile. "Oh god. Oh good god." John groaned. His head felt like it was splitting. "Have mercy." Sherlock was still smiling, he was walking around the room telling John his plans. "Shh, one moment." John jumped up and took one of his pills. "Shower. Dressed. Sunglasses. Then we can go _anywhere_." He shuffled out of the room into the bathroom, and he could hear the distinct sound of sniggering behind him.

It was very nearly noon, and Sherlock had been awake for some time, planning, thinking, designing an itinerary. "Brunch in the hotel's restaurant. Parasailing. Strolling the market. The opera." He was pacing, still hyperenergetic. "If…John?" He could hear John moaning. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. My eyes hurt." He groaned. "It's okay, that all sounds good to me." He walked out of the bathroom, after his shower. "Oh my god. Don't let me drink like that again." He rubbed his eyes. "Hm. Okay, I'll get dressed and come downstairs, you go and get us somewhere to sit."

Sherlock walked out of the room. John waited until he could hear the lift open and close before going into his suitcase. He pulled out his clothes. Although he'd had sex with Sherlock, he was utterly ashamed of his body. He quickly pulled on his clothes and went downstairs.

Sherlock was sitting at a table near a window. John sat down and smiled over the table at him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows disapprovingly. He's guessed about John waiting for him to get downstairs before changing.

"I like your sunglasses," Sherlock quipped. "I've ordered us some brunch, nothing too complicated, and you need plenty of water. After all, a hangover is just a massive dehydration…experience." He picked up his own glass. "Are you alright? I really don't mind, you know. About your scars." He watched John carefully, silvery eyes trying to read John's mood with concern.

"But neither of us like them." John sipped on his water. "They're ugly." He was very matter-of-fact about this. "There is nothing attractive about my body at all." Sherlock's eyes were dancing across his face- he was deducing. "I feel bloody gremlin-like next to you." He chuckled.

When brunch came, John picked at it. It was hard for him to keep anything down. Sherlock, however, was eating much more than usual, happily, too. John sighed, and rested his head on his hands. "Is there anything you like about my body?" He was already prepared for the answer of 'no.'

Sherlock's face fell and he put down his silverware. It was something he hadn't considered before and he was aware the period of silence was going to trouble John. "Your eyes," he said after an awkward amount of time. He thought further. "And…your shoulder. The scar. It tells me that you were willing to put your life on the line for everything you believe in." He looked puzzled. "Why should you feel unattractive in my presence in particular?"

"Because, In case you haven't noticed, you're actually beautiful. People must look at you and think- 'What's he doing with that short, fat thing?'" Sherlock frowned, almost as if he hadn't noticed his looks. "Oh come on." John snorted. "You _have_ seen yourself in a mirror. You're just.. wow." John sipped at his water again. Sherlock was still frowning.

After brunch, they went down to the beach. Sherlock was still asking John questions about his looks. "Right, you're amazing looking. You're smart. You're a kind person, although you'll disagree. I love you. That is that."

Sherlock was still perplexed as to the physical reaction, but decided not to pursue the matter further. "Shall we go parasailing?" It was something he'd always wanted to do, ever since his wild year in Europe. He'd never gotten to. "Either way, I'm going to, but whether or not you're going to is your choice."

He approached the parasailing instructor and asked to go up. He practically beamed at John as he was strapped into the equipment, too busy prepping for the euphoria of near-flight to think about whether John was right behind him. He closed his eyes as he rose into the air, wind whipping his curls around his ears. He felt alive, so so alive.

As he reached the peak of the altitude he'd achieve, he opened his eyes. It was fantastic from up here, like he'd ceased being human and became instead a bird. He started laughing freely. But then the boat began to slow and he felt himself sinking. Memories of falling from the Bart's rooftop came flooding back and his glee turned to panic. "It's just a memory, it can't hurt you," he muttered to himself as he slowly returned to sea level, his body tense as he tried to convince it he'd be fine. He managed to calm down before he returned to shore, but he was still a little distant and pale.

John had decided not to go with him because his stomach felt like it was swirling. He watched him, though, and was reminded of the time he jumped from Bart's. John sat down, he placed his head in his hands.

By the time Sherlock got back, he was pale. "Didn't you like it?" John smiled, but Sherlock shook his head, as if to say it was something else. "You weren't thinking about.. you know. That time off Bart's." he swallowed. Every time he mentioned it, the flashbacks would be awful. John started to shake. "Never mind."

"You were," Sherlock observed. "We both were." He shrugged. "Only as I came down. Sense-memory is a powerful thing." He surveyed the beach. "I'm not afraid of heights. I never have been. But now I'm frightened of _falling_. Should have considered that before trying parasailing, but it's nice to know my limits. Quite honestly, I'm amazed I didn't flash back to the warehouse. You know. Straps around my chest, hanging." He caught John's look. "Mm, timing. Not good?" John nodded, so Sherlock decided to go on a completely different train of thought. "To the market? I quite like the smells in a marketplace. Fresh bread and a cacophony of spices." He walked on, back up the beach.

They went to the market and Sherlock bought all his favorite foods. John just stood quietly, nodding when spoken to.  
>"Can we go back to the hotel?" John said, glumly. Sherlock was asking him why, disappointed that he wouldn't be able to spend the day how he'd planned. "Because I'm not in the mood now, I'm actually quite… I don't know. If not, can we go somewhere alone?" He looked down at his feet. "Now I've been reminded of that, i feel awful."<p>

"I would have thought that that was all the more reason to enjoy yourself, rather than hide. But if that's what you want." Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes. "Fortunately, the opera is still performing tomorrow night." His posture had slumped, obviously deflated.

When they arrived at the hotel, Sherlock nearly instantly went out to the balcony and sat, staring out across the harbour. _ All these tiny little people living their tiny little lives. How boring it must be._ He watched them like he was watching ants. He sniffed—the smell of cigarette smoke wafted in front of his nose and he mused that since his operation, he hadn't so much as wanted to smoke. He smiled sadly. He was so different than what he had been before he'd faked his death. No—the change started before that. The crack in the lens, the flaw in the diamond. Emotions.

"I'm sorry." John walked into the room, throwing his jacket on the bed. He slumped down onto it. "I'm just remembering you… falling. I remember how alone I was, how fragile I became. I never want to lose you again." His eyes were filling up. "Ignore me, I'm being silly." He put his head in his hands. "I can't even show you my body, and we're in a relationship. I'm a terrible boyfriend."

"I have no basis of comparison to either confirm or refute that, though I will point out that you're the best boyfriend I've ever had." Sherlock came back off the balcony. "From this point on, I promise to avoid ledges and balconies in your presence." He was restless in the hotel, knowing there was a whole city to explore, but not wanting to leave John on his own. "You're sure all you want to do is sit in here?"

"I'd come with you, but.. I just want to do something, just the two of us." John thought back to the field. "I know you want to see the city, but we should do something memorable. In case… In case anything happens."

Sherlock stared at John with extreme concern. "Are you anticipating anything bad happening?" Dozens of scenarios were flying through his head. John was dying and hadn't told Sherlock yet. There were assassins following them. John was hiding the fact that he was suicidal. Sherlock himself was dying and Doctor Watson knew. John was going to leave him. They'd received death threats and John had hid them. John had decided he was going back to the Army. He'd been given a slow-acting incurable poison. "John, tell me." He held John's shoulders.

"Nothing. I just know that you'll probably leave me at some point." He looked deep into his eyes. "I love you, and I want to have as many memories as possible." Sherlock looked at him, rather annoyed. "What? Come on. As I said this morning, you're far better than me, therefore, why should you wish to stay with somebody so.. boring?" He was starting to breathe heavily.

"Why would I leave you?" Sherlock's confusion was genuine. "Alright, yes, technically I left you after the whole Rich Brook mess, but I came back, didn't I?" He was holding John forcibly in his vision. "Stop being so paranoid. I need you too much to leave you. Without you, I'd still be smoking. No—without you, I'd be dead. You're right, I would have taken that pill if you hadn't shot the cabbie. And if that wouldn't have killed me, then it would have been the Black Lotus or Moriarty, possibly even myself on accident. So snap out of it, John Hamish Watson. That's an order," he finished in a low, forceful-yet-gentle voice.

John brushed his hands through his hair and pulled him to his face. "Fine." They were nose against nose. "I need you too." He closed his eyes and kissed him, slowly. This kiss wasn't the usual, but it was more meaningful. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, the embrace felt closer than any other.

After a few minutes, Sherlock pulled away. He doubted he'd ever get used to the close physical contact their relationship demanded. "John. I'm concerned about you. You seem depressed despite being, in your words, the happiest you've ever been. I need to know a few things." He looked almost like he was wounded. He had to know how strong John was. He had to know just how badly he'd hurt John. He had to know how close John was to the edge of the fatal knife. "Answer me honestly. When you thought I was dead, did you try to commit suicide?"

John closed his eyes in disbelief. He shook his head. "Please, can we not-" Sherlock protested.. "Yes." He squealed. "I tried to overdose. I threw myself down the stairs. I drank too much. I ended up in hospital about four times, but because I was good friends with my doctor, they decided to let it drop instead of councilling me." He didn't look at him at all, instead he looked down at his feet. "I thought you were dead.. You have to understand that. I saw you on the pavement, I saw all the blood I- I just wanted to end it."

Sherlock closed his eyes, unable to speak. He knew the thing he wanted to say was wrong—_I thought you were stronger than that_. He didn't know it was going to take that long to come back. He didn't know that John would try time and time again to die. But he registered that part of John must not have given up entirely as he never used the gun he'd had in the desk drawer in 221B.

His hand shook. He'd realized that there was the possibility of suicidal tendencies, now, after the fact, but never in his nightmares did he dream John would try it more than once, let alone four times. He still couldn't find the courage to say anything, just sat dumbfounded with an expression of utter shock and horror.

"You're thinking about the gun." John said. It wasn't a question. "You took it. Jim killed himself with it. I don't know where it is." Sherlock frowned. "It's not like you to forget. You see, it seemed like it was so easy for you," He gulped, "I thought you were dead. I thought you were gone, poof, that's it. But I was alone. Nobody could cheer me up. I slept in your room every night, until it stopped smelling of you. Then I slept in your chair. Then, I tried to kill myself. You think I'm weak, because it wouldn't effect you. But it effected me." He was sobbing whilst he said this, pacing the room. "I realized how much I needed you. How much I need you now."

"I…" Sherlock swallowed, wondering how best to phrase his thoughts. "I didn't even have that much." He remembered the constant watching of John from a distance, perpetually reading his blog, hoping for an update, knowing he couldn't make contact or more lives than his own would be in danger. He let his last statement sink in before continuing. "And…when you overdosed recently, to escape Avery, were you—?" He couldn't finish the words. Was he really responsible for the five times John had tried to die? He'd spent all that time in war and bloody battle just to try to surrender to his depression at home?

"No. I did it to show Avery how much of a dick he could be. It made you think more, made you more distant, I thought it would do the same for me. It didn't, I didn't know how much to take." Sherlock sat down onto the bed, shocked. "But this isn't your fault. I've suffered with depression since I was a teenager." Sherlock shook his head, as if it didn't matter, as if he still blamed himself.

John sat down next to him and put his hand on his thigh. "Trust me. Have I ever failed you?"

"No." He gave his sincere half-chuckle. "You've shouted at me, though, and ran off once or twice, but never failed me." _You would have if you'd managed to kill yourself._ "I do trust you. I trust you more than anyone else, I thought you would have realized that by now."

Sherlock stood up and cleared his throat, straightening his suit. "What shall we do now, then? Your choice."

"I'd like to go back to the field, if that's okay with you." John smiled, wiping his eyes. "I promise you can do what you want for the rest of this holiday, but for the rest of today, I want to lie there with you." He reached out to hold onto his hand and smiled at him. "Please."

Sherlock closed his eyes with a smile. "Yes," he said simply, and before he knew it they were back on the train, headed back to the countryside, back to Sherlock's Heaven. Sherlock's mind was blinded with anything else as he ran into the field. It was nearly three in the afternoon, but there was plenty of time. He lay down in the grass and the flowers and closed his eyes. His fingers wandered over and found John's, almost without trying, and before long the warm sun had lulled him completely to sleep, and oddly, he dreamed of nothing but the smell of the flowers in which he lay.

John smiled as he looked at their entwined fingers. For once, he allowed his mind to wander. He lay awake, remembering. The time that he first met Sherlock, and the first time at the flat. The first cases, and the apologies he made for him. Meeting Irene, the drugs, the arguments, the laughs. Then his mind wandered to the worst. The fall. How he was told to move on, but he didn't. He tried to end it. Harry always tried to get him to date, but he flatly refused. Three long years of stagnant feeling, just wanting everything to stop.

Then there was a knock at the door. Harry had opened it at first, and all John could hear was screams or anger and abuse. He came to the door to see what had happened, but his face fell flat when he saw him. He was standing there. He was standing there, breathing. "John." He said. Of course, John's first reaction was a swift punch to the face, but after he'd dragged him in and demanded an explanation, he understood. He'd done this for him. He never admitted his love for John, but he didn't need to. He cared enough to fake his death, to watch John cry and beg.

But of course, after Harry left, John had sobbed uncontrollably. He told him how much he loved him. That was when Sherlock gave himself to John, utterly. After that, John tried his best to forget the whole ordeal, he moved on with him, pretending that it didn't happen.

"I'm sorry." John breathed into his ear. "I know I'm weak, but never doubt that I love you." He knew Sherlock was sleeping, but somehow, he knew he'd hear him.

Sherlock's dream, so utterly devoid of all but the sense of smell was suddenly punctuated by John's voice as if the wind were speaking to him and he couldn't help but smile in his sleep, and even muttered "my indefatigable soldier". The smell of the flowers was intoxicating and he probably wouldn't have been able to drag himself out of sleep if he'd wanted to.

He lay there well into the night, missing the sunset he'd secretly wanted to see, but in a blissful dream. When he did wake up, it was because the right side of him was cold. He opened his eyes and looked around, momentarily confused as to how he'd gotten in the middle of a field with John half on top of him. Then he remembered and smiled. He shook John gently. "No point in paying for a four-star hotel if we're going to be sleeping in a field," he said, hoisting John to his feet.

"Well, we've wasted a day, but it's not one I'll ever forget." He smiled as they walked away arm in arm. "What time is it?" He looked down at his watch. "God I haven't even changed the time on it." Sherlock told him it was about eight o'clock. "Right. Should we go to the hotel, or do you want to go somewhere else?"

"This day is yours, remember? Your choice." Sherlock felt strangely lucid, as if there had been something intoxicating in the flowers. He blinked slowly. "I think we ought to leave the countryside, though. It's having a peculiar effect on me, one that I'm not entirely keen on." He rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Back to town," he said and headed off in the direction of the station.

"I think we should go back to the hotel, you look tired." They boarded the train. When they were sitting down, Sherlock asked John about his ex girlfriends. "Oh, right." He coughed. "Not much to tell, really. I was a hormonal teenager, and I didn't change until I was about twenty five." He looked out of the window, not making eye contact. "I'm not too sure about how many I've had, but none of them were significant. I've only ever had one significant relationship, and it's ongoing." He squeezed his hand and smiled.

"I'm still not sure why," Sherlock confessed. "I've driven you to try to kill yourself four times, I've gotten you kidnapped and tortured, I've made you live with a violent psychopath, I'm hardly an intimate person, and to be honest, the thought of anything permanent repels me. That would normally be grounds to break up, wouldn't it?" His own observations of relationships (except for Natalia) had been based solely on Mycroft, Molly, and John, and so his sample base was limited.

John just smiled. Sherlock understood what that smile was—unconditional dedication. He appreciated what that meant. He really did, though he could never express it properly. He sat in silence for the rest of the trip, just watching John watch him.

When they arrived in the hotel, John was exhausted from the emotional stress of the day and within minutes of changing into his nightclothes had fallen asleep. It took Sherlock another hour—he'd slept in the field, but was still tired. He shut his eyes and that strange explosive noise and light rocked his mind again.

The smell of cigarette smoke woke him up. It was dark in the room, but from the chair there was a little glowing orange light. Sherlock stared, sitting bolt upright, wondering why anyone would break into their hotel room to watch them sleep.

"I know what you're thinking," came a too-familiar voice. His own. "You're wondering how I can be here, how you can see me rather than just see my effects." The figure in the chair took a long, slow drag on the cigarette. "You know the answer."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but stopped as the smoker leaned forward and into what little light the outside windows brought. He recognized the face instantly. Himself but not himself. Avery.

"It's strange to watch this relationship from afar. One in love, the other trying but never quite getting there. Only once, you said you love him. And you're not sure if it was true or just the desperation of a man who thinks those words could be his last." The glowing light at the end of the cigarette flared as Avery took another puff. "You fascinate me. You keep trying, knowing you'll never really love him. You desperately want him to believe that somewhere in your frozen soul, there's a glimmer of love for him and him alone. You don't want to admit the truth. I appreciate your efforts, and so does he, I'm sure, but it's twisting to watch you torment yourself by trying too hard."

"I—" Sherlock cut himself off as John stirred. He must have overestimated how deeply John was out, and turned to look at his tiredly confused face. "Nightmare," he said. "Go back to sleep." When he turned back to the chair, his hallucination had gone.

The sunlight cracked through the window in the early hours of the morning, it must have been about six. John lay there, wondering what Sherlock had dreamed of. He was unusually worried about it. Sherlock was muttering in his sleep, which he didn't usually do. John decided to shake him lightly. "Sherlock, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. The dream-pinging was still bouncing around in his mind, but the sound relented upon waking. He rolled over and sat up, staring at the place he'd seen Avery sitting in the middle of the night. He tried to pass it off as just himself recovering from a nightmare, but in reality, he was very worried.

"Um. Nightmare." He stood up and ran his hands through his already dishevelled hair. "I'm fine. Just my subconscious playing tricks on me." He smiled, insincerely, but hopefully John would only see his smile. "I'm going to shower."

He took an extraordinarily long shower, letting the slightly-too-hot water pour over him as he thought about his hallucination. If Avery was back, that means the operation hadn't worked. It meant that nothing was going to work. He tried not to think of the implications—_John Watson in hospital, the famous Sherlock Holmes under arrest for the murder of the one who put him there; but it wasn't him, it was Avery and no one was going to believe him because this has happened before_—but his active mind couldn't help it. "No. I'm going to enjoy this holiday." He didn't mean to speak aloud, but the words just poured out. He shut his eyes and focussed on the sound of the water on his skin. It helped.

He came out of the bathroom fully dressed. Today was a dark grey-green shirt day. "Well?"

John smiled at him. "You look amazing in that shirt." He was already dressed, and reading on the bed. "So. Where do you want to go?" He closed his book and leaned up on his arm. "It's up to you today, anything you like." He smiled up at him, "This holiday is amazing so far."

"You're biased, you think I look amazing in any shirt." He half-smirked at John. "I think we should get a portrait. Actual portrait, not a photograph. Painted. Something to hang in Baker Street." He wasn't sure why the idea occurred to him, but the vision of a hand-painted piece of artwork to commemorate their friendship/relationship/whatever the heck it was hanging in the flat above the sofa appealed to him. "I think I know where to get one. But not before breakfast. Wouldn't want baggy eyes to be immortalized."

"I like your thinking." He smiled. Sherlock wasn't in the best of moods today, evidently. He stomped down to the lift and pushed the buttons angrily. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" John was concerned- he'd not been like this since Avery had been around. "He's not.. back, is he?" He looked down at his feet, not wanting to see the look on his face.

Sherlock was momentarily surprised by the correct analysis John had made, but he glossed over it in an instant. "No," he half-lied. "Just had a nightmare, that's all. Everyone has nightmares." He needed coffee. "Let's get some coffee and then we can look for a street-painter with talent." It came off as tetchy, but seeing as how Sherlock's French grandmother had been a fairly well-known artist in her heyday, he wasn't going to settle for anything below her level.

He got his coffee, and settled down in the same seat they'd had yesterday. He poked at his food, distracted, but made sure to eat heartily anyway. He barely registered whatever it was John was talking about. He was too busy coming up with a cover story—what would his nightmare have been about? Something that would trouble him enough to wake him, something that wasn't Avery. _Moriarty_. Moriarty laughing at him, sitting in a mental institution, straitjacketed and drugged. The thought of such a thing gave him a slight shiver, and desperately hoped that he wouldn't actually have that nightmare.

He realized John had asked him a question. "What?"

"I said, apart from getting the painting done, is there anything else you want to do?" Sherlock looked troubled. He shook his head. "Really? So we're just going to come back to the hotel? It's a good job you can rent films here, I had a look before, they have a pirates of the Caribbean box-set." He reached his hand over the table and took his. He was tense. "If it's any consolation, I'm terrified at the thought of him coming back too."

"I'm not thinking about Avery!" Sherlock practically slammed his fist down on the table. He put his face in his other hand. "Sorry. I just—let's not talk about him, please. Not here, not France. Not where I was feeling happy." He composed himself quickly. "You pick. Again. Well. I want to go to the opera this evening." He looked at John, full deductive and information-compiling skills on. "You've never been to one. Where better than the Cultural Capital of Europe?"

"Right." John nodded, and sipped his tea. He knew he _was_ thinking about him, but he let it drop. Sherlock talked at him about opera, but he didn't even nod, or say the odd 'yeah', instead, he just kept his eyes down, whilst he poured the salt on the table.

John was thinking about how life was before Avery, before Moriarty had got to them. "Just out of interest, do you think you'll ever be able to kiss me properly again?" He interrupted, still looking at the table. "Not that it matters, but out of interest."

"We kissed yesterday," Sherlock pointed out. "And in the field the day before." He took another sip of coffee. "Of course it matters, or you wouldn't have mentioned it." He looked awkward for a moment, but then took both of John's hands and stared into his eyes. "Please. Don't let's talk about…that. At all. If we must discuss it, let's leave it for a dark and rainy day in London, not bright sunny Mediterranean France."

He finished the rest of his meal in silence before taking the lift back downstairs. They walked along the streets, looking for a portrait artist who would paint them, and eventually found one.

"This good?" Sherlock wanted to get John's approval as well.

"Yep." John smiled, although he was in no mood to do so. They sat down for the picture, making sure he was holding Sherlock's hand.

When the picture was done, Sherlock was delighted with it. "It's brilliant!" John almost squealed. Sherlock in paint form was captivating, his eyes had all the knowledge and intelligence behind them, which is something that he never expected to be captured. John looked extremely happy, elated. He was painted exactly as he was, the bags under his eyes showing and the dimples at the side of his mouth. He wondered how Sherlock would feel to look back on this; would he remember John, or would he just see the picture and say 'remember when..'? _That's right. Because he's going to leave. _John jumped. "We need to go back to the hotel now. I forgot to take my medication." He was shaking. The voice was back, spitting vile and violent words at him, sending shivers through his whole body.

Sherlock was suddenly cold with worry. "Stay strong," he kept muttering as they ran. _We can't both fight our demons at once. _ The lift wasn't moving quickly enough for Sherlock's taste, knowing John's sanity was at stake. Maybe he was overreacting, but he felt the need to overreact. They returned to the room and Sherlock made sure John took it. "We're staying here until the medicine starts to work."

John sat on the bed shaking after he'd taken his pill. "God, I'm so stupid. I should have remembered." His felt like it was spinning, the room was swirling around him and he passed out on the bed.

His dreams, if you could call them that, were dark and obscure. He was walking through a dark forest, much like the one when they looked for the hound. He was stumbling over tree roots because it was so dark. Eventually, he reached a closing in which there was a small house. He felt exhausted, thirsty and hungry. He knocked at the door, which is something he wouldn't of done in real life. Whoever lived there, dragged him in. Avery was standing there, arms outstretched, expecting an embrace. "Why are you here?" John found himself saying. Avery came close to his ear, breathing loudly. "You know why I'm here. I'm here because you need me to be. You need to know that theres a part of him that can feel, a part of him that actually wants you. You have needs, physical and emotional, and he just doesn't fufil them. You need me, John, as I need you." John shivered, his breath cold on his neck.  
>"No. I love him the way he is." He protested. "Him. Cold, abrasive. Because he's real. He tries to love me, he wants to." Avery grabbed his arms. "I'll always have a hold on you."<p>

He screamed. John was back in the room, and Sherlock was sitting over him. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine." Sherlock was very concerned, hadn't even moved while John was asleep. "No one who wakes up from a drug-laden nap screaming could in any way be considered fine." He handed John a cup of water. "I've ordered room service. Thought you might be peckish." He smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Tell—" He cut himself off, thinking of a kinder way to phrase his inquiry. "If you feel comfortable with doing so, please tell me what you dreamed that was so horrible."

"Nothing. I just had one of those dreams where it causes you to jump, that's all." He didn't want to tell him. He'd already had a dream about Avery, so why did he need to know about John's? It'd make everything worse. "No biggie." He smiled weakly. After room service arrived, he managed to eat something small, but not much more. "Sherlock, come here." He pulled him into the bed with him. He put his head on his chest, listening to his heart. "What time is the opera?" He mumbled, not wanting to ruin Sherlocks evening.

"Seven-thirty. We have three hours." Sherlock stared at the ceiling, feeling John's breathing pattern, registering the stress. "I know what you dreamed about. The fact that you brought it up earlier means it's been on your mind, and I hardly think your subconscious would leave you alone after thinking of it. Don't worry. It's unhealthy. This is meant to be a holiday. You can choose fifty-one other weeks to worry if you still insist on it." He sighed. "Though I'd rather you didn't worry about it then either. Every story has dark chapters. But that chapter closed and we're into a new one. Never good to dwell on the past." He smirked quietly—he was being oddly sentimental, trying to convince himself as much as John. He didn't tell John he was smelling cigarette smoke again.

"I guess I'm just worried about everything." He sighed. "But I shan't go into it, I wouldn't want to bore you." His mind was moving fast, all his insecurities screaming at once. "God, I can't think." He sat up, his head in his hands. "What the fuck is going on?" He was shouting it at himself. "I can't sleep, I can't think. His voice is burning." He fell face flat into the sheets, sobbing.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond. If it had been him, he'd have probably run to his hidden drug stash at home to help blank his mind. But John wasn't like that (thank God). Matters of the mind were Sherlock's plague, the physical John's. It shouldn't be like this. John shouldn't have to suffer through both.

Sherlock moved around into John's vision, kneeling on the floor. "What is it you need? Name it and I'll get it for you."

"No. We're going out. I refuse to ruin today." He pulled on his shoes and jacket. "I'll be confused by too many questions, and most probably uncomfortable in crowds, just stay by me." He grabbed onto his hand and walked out of the room. "Where do you want to go? Name it." He was talking fast. "This won't happen again." He was pacing around, angrily, because of himself.

"Believe me, I understand that feeling." Sherlock looked down at him, trying to be a guardian angel but not really trying. "Perhaps we should go to the beach. Just sit somewhere where the waves can lap at your feet but not wash you away. Doesn't do me any good, but you aren't me." He was trying to think of things. "Forgo the opera for tonight." Fortunately, they were playing the whole week, so Sherlock wasn't likely to miss it. "Or would you rather go to a massage parlour? Or whatever they're called."

"I don't want to cancel any plans. I refuse to let this beat me. We can go to the beach now, but we're going to the opera. You want to go, so I do." He smiled at him as they walked down to the beach. "Thank you." John smiled. "Thank you for being here."

"You're the one accompanying me," Sherlock said, trying to be his normal self. He was sure it would reassure John, acting like nothing was wrong, even when it was. He remembered John's wardrobe and a thought occurred to him. "You didn't bring a suit for the opera, did you? We have plenty of time to purchase one."

"Sorry, I forgot all about it. Do you know anywhere nice?" Sherlock told him all about a little place off the market that Mycroft used to go to. "Then, let's go now."

John couldn't find anything. "You pick something, I have no taste at all." He sighed. His mind was far too messed up for him to focus on anything.

"It needs to be a reflection of you." Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why John was letting him pick—aesthetics were very low on his list of interests, after all. Nevertheless, he handed John a white tuxedo with tails and a white bow tie. "All white. What do you think?" He'd already chosen black for himself.

"I'll try it on." He went into the changing rooms and worked it on to his body.  
>"Here." He did a halfhearted twirl when he came out. "I feel like a bride." He laughed. Sherlock looked amazing in his suit, and John felt ridiculous next to him. "Right." He nodded. "I'll just go and.. uh.. change. Yeah." And he sauntered off into the changing rooms.<p>

When he came out, Sherlock was sitting on the leather couch in the corner. "So, beach? Do we have time?"

"Bride? Oh. White." Sherlock hadn't considered that. But John looked quite good in white—that avenging angel Sherlock felt him to be. "Looks nice on you." He checked his watch. "Hmm. Not quite enough time to relax and then get back to the hotel and get ready."

Sherlock's hair was nicely combed, looking every inch the aristocrat as he strolled out of their hotel room, resplendent in his tails. "Shall we, Doctor Watson?"

"Yep." He smiled, taking his arm. They walked down the stairs, for once, killing time. "I think we should walk, we have the time, don't we?" They paced down the main street. "I have no idea where I'm going, you lead the way." John remembered, poking him.

They reached the opera house ten minutes early. "We should go and get our seats." They walked inside the huge white doors, up the stairs which were covered with a bronze covered fabric, and through more doors. Sherlock had got them seats in the stands, which were apparently hard to get.

He took a program and took his seat, translating the paper for John, telling him about the opera they'd be seeing. When the show began, he fell silent, his attention focussed onstage. He moved his fingers conducting the music, and laughed at all the right points. Latin was nothing new to him, and between acts, he managed to fill John in on what was happening.

He did his best to ignore the empty seat he didn't see as empty. Avery—or the hallucination of him—was enjoying himself just as much as Sherlock was, perhaps more so. And of course he was dressed identically to Sherlock, black tails, tux, and bow tie.

The opera finished, Avery once again dissolved into the ether, and Sherlock turned to John, explaining the final act with a smile. "I've wanted to see that for some time. Did you enjoy it?"

"Bloody hell. That was amazing. Imagine the planning it takes to produce a show like that." he was grinning, he'd thoroughly enjoyed his first opera. "So. What now?" He stopped walking when they got outside. "There's something else we need to do. Not sure what, but something." He scratched his head. It was like he'd forgotten something, that was on the tip of his tongue. "You choose, whatever it was will come back to me."

"The beach? Though I really didn't see us as the sort of couple to go for moonlight strolls along the Mediterranean." Sherlock hesitated on the word 'couple'. He'd never been completely comfortable with rigid terms to define their relationship. "The massage parlours are probably closed now." Ten at night on the beach in glorious springtime France. Isn't this how you were supposed to fall in love? If ever there were a time for emotional exploration, it would be now.

"I love that idea. Also, nor did I, but there's no harm in trying, is there?" Sherlock slipped his hand into John's, unusual, but nice.

The beach wasn't far from the opera house, it was just along the road and through some dunes. The sea was softly crashing against the sand, and the air whipped at John's face. Sherlock's hair was blowing about, which made him laugh. It was not quite cold, and not too warm; the perfect temperature for a nighttime walk. John decided he would suggest another honesty hour, and started by asking Sherlock about his parents.

Sherlock's face fell slightly. "My parents. Inattentive. Verging on neglectful, really. More so father than mother. He always wanted me to be a little Mycroft clone, perfect at everything. He'd get cross when I spent more time studying than with the friends I never had. Mycroft never needed to study. Mother was better. She didn't try to force me to be exactly what Mycroft was, though she was still strict." He picked up a shell and threw it into the ocean. "Mycroft and I figured out that father was unfaithful and exposed it. Mother left not long afterward. Not forever; she came back because she thought that raising two children with both parents was worth more than the effort of not forgiving father. But they didn't speak for three months after she returned." His voice dropped. "I did blame him. I said as much. His reaction…" Sherlock's eyes were distant as he winced with the memory. "Suffice it to say that I never really got along with them. Mycroft was the only person I could ever turn to when I needed help."

Sherlock watched the moonlight on the waves for a few moments, lost in thoughts of the darker portions of his childhood. "What about yours?"

"I got on well with my mother." He didn't say anything else. Sherlock mentioned that he did say 'parents.' "My dad was abusive. He used to beat me when I stuck up for my mum, whom he tried to kill. At least I think he tried. He used to drink and snort cocaine at the same time, so you never knew if he was in control." John stared off. He'd never talked about this in depth. "He told me something once, something that I've remembered my whole life. He said that I'll never do anything of value. I'll never keep a relationship or a job, and that I'll die alone. So far, he's been right, about most things." He was choking up, not because of tears, but because of rage. "So, erm, what about your first day at uni?"

No wonder he ran away to the army. A desire to protect. "Look at us, John. Two men with broken pasts finding solace in each other." Sherlock looked deeply at John. "First day of uni. Noting terrific. I moved into my rooms, started attending class. Probably annoyed people. No one knew me yet." He shrugged. "What was it like to be a soldier? The rigid discipline, structured days, authority everywhere. Sounds hellish."

"Enjoyable." He smiled. This surprised Sherlock. "I liked having a routine, and the discipline was much more mild than it was at home, I was only sixteen when I began training, but I was obviously studying for medical school as well. But it was like an escape, I could let out my anger and have a planned day. When I started in the war though, things started to become… traumatizing." He looked down at the sand. "You could say, I was mental before I got shot."

"You're not mental." Sherlock gently brushed his fingers against John's. "Merely troubled." He was trying to reassure John with facts, but he wasn't sure how well he was doing. "I expect your medical knowledge helped any combat skills you needed to exercise." He smirked. "Your turn," he reminded John.

John had been avoiding a question, but he decided to go with it. "What did you think of the first time we had sex?" He turned his face away, embarrassed. He'd felt incredibly self conscious since. He pulled Sherlock's hand into his, still looking away.

Sherlock could tell that John could feel his sudden tenseness. He hadn't given too much thought to that night. The sense of relief of letting John know he was still alive had overcome him and for the first time he'd dropped every facade. "I…um…it was…it was nice. It was good." Even in the moonlight it was easy to see Sherlock's pale face was flushed. He cleared his throat, unsure of what to say next. "Why? What did you think when I…um."

John looked at him, or at least tried to. "It, uh.. was the best sex I've ever had." He could feel embarrassment rising up his neck. He decided it was best to ask another question. "Was it like how you imagined when you were younger? I mean, I feel like a let down."

"Really? The best? Oh." Sherlock cleared his throat again. "No one was particularly educating about same-sex…sex. I had no preconceived notions about what any sort of sex would be like. And if I did, I'd deleted them as irrelevant information."

He laughed slightly. "We're so pathetically…normal right now. Just two people, connected by emotions and the past, talking about lovemaking as we walk under the moonlight on the beach in springtime France. It's a bad paperback." He grinned nervously with the absurdity of it. "Or one of those horrible films you insist on watching." All sense of stress was released as he laughed, picturing themselves in a film, as characters rather than people.

"When was your first…time? While we're on the subject."

"I like those films shamelessly, no matter what you say." John pouted.

"It was.. um.. I was seventeen. I was drunk and at a party. The girl was.. promiscuous. I don't remember it really. I never expected it to be that way though." John rolled his eyes. "It was a major let down in my life, I expected much more. I just had to wait for the right person." John stopped to look at Sherlock. "I love you." He smiled up at him, tiptoeing up to kiss him on the nose.

Sherlock accepted the kiss with a gentle smile.

_Say it._

Avery was standing behind John, glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock did his best to keep looking at John happily, ignoring the looming figure.

_I'm not going to lie to him._

_He needs to hear it anyway._

_I won't lie. Not to John._

John looked at him, concerned. "Just…mm. That kiss is going to take a bit of readjusting after Moriarty." Sherlock tried to brush it off, and saw to his relief that Avery was vanishing with a glower. He shivered slightly. "Bit cold, isn't it?"

"Do you want to go back to the hotel?" John sighed, looking back down at his feet. "I don't mind."

They did go back, but took a cab this time instead of walking. John looked out of the window on the way back, not touching Sherlock. He'd assumed that he wasn't going to come around.

Sherlock was confused. "Have I offended you in some way?" John's body language was distant, as if trying to keep himself away from Sherlock. The detective watched him, perplexed, wondering if this was one of those times he'd accidentally made a gigantic social mistake but for some reason hadn't been called out on it. "I honestly don't know what it is I've done to elicit this response." He was studying John's every little twitch, every fragment of his posture (legs crossed, leaning against the window, chin supported by left hand, other arm across stomach, not speaking) but was coming up with nothing to tell him _why_.

"I thought you didn't want me to touch you.." He grimaced. "Why, do you want me to?" He put his hand on top of Sherlock's. "I know this isn't your fault, I just don't know if you're ready to.. be intimate with me." He sighed and looked out of the window again. "I wish you were."

"I don't know." Sherlock's face was sort of scrunched up. "There are…certain things that remind me too much of…that time. But we can always make new things." There was a lump in his throat. "Are _you _ready? That's the question. Safe words or signals or something if it gets too much. I won't deny I'm apprehensive. But if you need it, I can try."

_You're trying. That's a good step._

It was just the voice and the smell this time, nothing more, and he'd been expecting it and thus didn't flinch.

_Go. Away._

_I'm only trying to help you help him._

_Go. Away._

"I'm not sure if I'm ready. I'm not sure that I'm not. It took me three and a half decades to be ready the first time, and that was without any trauma. We can but try." He tried to smile comfortingly.

"I am if you are." John sighed, he turned to look at him and tried to smile. "The question is, are you _really_ ready?" Sherlock nodded, as John guessed it was a trial. John leaned over a kissed him, softly. "Okay, if you're sure."

"No way to know until we've tried." Sherlock was nervous again, untrained again. When they arrived at their hotel, he sat on the bed in nothing but his underwear and waited for John to make the first move. (He had turned the heating up as he was a bit cold with so much of himself exposed.) "I think the simplest safe word, 'stop', would be the best, don't you?"

John leaned over him and kissed him softly. His mind was starting to spin again, but he tried his best to block it out. He pushed him down onto the bed, slipping his hand into Sherlock's. He was taking it slow, but because his mind was racing, that was difficult. He moved his hand down to Sherlock's waist, and it made him shiver. John had to hold in a giggle. He pulled away from the kiss and looked at him. "Thank you for trusting me."

Sherlock was tense, not sure what to do now. "I…uh…thank you." He shut his eyes when he saw the M on John's chest. _ He did that intentionally, not just to hurt John, but to hurt me. It's not important,_ he tried to convince himself. He pulled John closer. It was more of a hug than a sexual response, but Sherlock felt like he had to give it.

_So close. Just forget about thinking._

_So now you're being voyeuristic?_

_I can't not be. I'm in your head._

_Doesn't mean you have to butt in._

Sherlock brushed his mouth on John's neck. He was feeling no urge, no desire at all, but it didn't stop him from trying. "I need you. To be close." His cold fingers traced the outline of John's shoulder blades and he could feel the worry and the suffering. "To forgive me." He whispered it into John's ear.

John closed his eyes. It was so difficult to imagine himself forgiving him, after everything. He put this thought to the back of his mind, and he focused on Sherlock again. He was tracing along his back, his fingers were cold, like ice. This made John shiver, although it felt like electricity. His fingers moved to the front, finding the M on his chest. John winced, but Sherlock didn't notice. He hated that thing, and the fact that Sherlock was tracing it made him dizzy. Sherlock must have noticed something, because he then moved up to the scar on his shoulder. He put his mouth against it, not quite kissing it.

"Everything about you, John." He was talking in fragmented sentences now. He couldn't help it. His body was starting to slowly take over and it was pushing his mind to the back. Sherlock gently kissed the wound that had brought John into his life to begin with. "Remind me to thank the man who shot you." It had come out wrong, but Sherlock didn't notice. He was too busy studying John with the sense of touch. The roughness of the army doctor's scar tissue against the naturally smooth fingertips of the world's only consulting detective—so different from his own skin that he found it fascinating.

So far, he was doing fine. Nothing terribly intimate had happened, and, while admittedly, the physical desire was lacking, nothing was serving to make him want to stop. "Like leather." His fingers traced up John's arms to behind his ears. "You're an egg." Sherlock's eyes were strangely distant, pupils alternating between dilated and contracted as if pulsating. His heart was pounding, his breathing shallow. He had a sort of lucid smile normally seen only on the heavily medicated. "Biorhythms responsive to physical stimulation."

John wanted to laugh but he was too busy feeling Sherlock's fingers all over his torso. He moved in and brushed his lips against his neck, making him shudder. John continued to add pressure to it. He moved his hands to his hips, pushing on them slightly- he knew this was one of Sherlock's weaknesses. Sherlock almost groaned, but suppressed it by kissing John's scar. John moaned a bit too loud, causing Sherlock to smirk at him, before carrying on.

Sherlock felt strange. High. Disconnected. His mind was falling to pieces under the influence of his body. This hadn't happened the other times, even as rare as they were. But it was good. "Two and two equal one." Sherlock half-threw John down to the bed.

_Now you're getting it._

His mind was too out-of control to protest. Sherlock sat on top of John. "Forget the yesterdays." He was quivering, all body, no mind. He flattened himself, holding John's wrists in place while he decided to feel the scars with his lips, less kissing than exploration. "Badges of honour."

John started paying attention to Sherlock's scars from the rope he'd been bound with; across his stomach and hips. When he began to lick at his hips, they jerked forward with a loud moan. John then began to work his way back up to his face. He kissed him, much more passionately than usual, bucking his hips against his.

Everything that made Sherlock who he was in his own eyes had vanished, the keen intellect gone, suppressed. His body was in control now, mumbling from time to time. He could see Avery sitting at the end of the bed, smoking and enjoying the show, but was managing to completely ignore him. "Alpha," he muttered as he forced John back down again. John's hands started to wander to the inside of Sherlock's pants and suddenly Sherlock backed off, standing up, his mind rushing back with horrible memories. "Stop."

John sat up, disappointed. Sherlock was panting, trying to calm himself. "Are you okay?" His face fell, as he looked down at his body wondering if it was his fault. "Was it me?" He closed his eyes.

Sherlock's mind was swimming through the horrible memories to reach the present and for an instant he stared into the wall, his pupils contracted. "No. Not you. Nothing to do with you. Sense-memory again. A physical trigger." He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear his vision. "Nice while it lasted, though." His gaze finally locked John's. "And you were fine?"

"I must have done something to trigger it. If it's not triggered, you won't get over it. I should know." He sighed and lay down on the bed. "Tell me when you want to try again." He pulled the duvet over himself and waited for Sherlock to climb in next to him. He didn't, instead he was still standing, looking at the end of the bed.

_He's right, you know. You need other associations with that touch._

_Yes, thank you, your unwanted input is noted._

"It was when your hand slid inside my underwear. Moran, he. Um." Sherlock shut his eyes. "I thought I was over this. I thought it was in the past." He was clearly agitated, his fingers rubbing against his palms. "You're right, of course you're right."

_Technically, you ought to be seeing someone._

_Again, shut up._

He sat in the bed next to John and stared at the ceiling. "Not been the best day, has it?"

"I disagree. I loved walking on the beach with you, and I loved being so close to you, and it doesn't matter that we can't have sex, because I'm here next to you now. So yeah." He pulled him down into the bed with him. Sherlock turned to look at him with sorry eyes. "I love you, and I know you can't say it back, but I do. You're the most special and amazing person I've ever met in my life, and we will get through this, I promise you." He kissed him gently.

"How?" Sherlock was frustrated. "Medicine and therapists and sleeping pills?" He buried his head in John's chest. "We came here to escape that." He breathed heavily, trying to rebury his anger and fear that it was something he'd never overcome. Instead he fell asleep, the last sense of the day being Avery gently kissing his ear while John kissed his forehead.

In the morning, John crept out of the bed to order room service. He woke him up by lightly kissing him on the neck. "Good morning." Sherlock smiled and sighed. "So, what do you want to do today?" He poured him some tea.

Sherlock was devouring his breakfast as he spoke. He hadn't dreamed—at least not that he remembered, which was a bit unusual, but nothing too concerning. "That massage idea sounds rather pleasant, to be honest, though I do want your opinion in the matter. Obviously." He took a hearty sip of tea. "Maybe we should just walk through the city and go into shops on a whim. Find a nice shop, buy some souvenirs, wind up in a hidden gem cafe, get mugged. Be naive tourists for a day."

"Hm, well anything you want, I'll go with it." He stood up and stretched. "I'm going to shower." He kissed him on the forehead and walked into the bathroom. After he'd got into the shower, Sherlock did something unusual. He joined him. John knew this was nothing sexual, but something intimate.

Sherlock felt like he was looking for something. He wasn't sure what it was, and he was in a sort of trance again. He'd had a mental conversation with Avery. The black part of Sherlock's mind had berated him for quitting out of fear. Now Sherlock felt distant, lost. Calm, but like he wasn't part of what was going on.

"About last night…I'm sorry. I know you wanted more." He was standing behind John and now he put his arms over John's shoulders in an embrace. "I'm trying. I really am. I see you fighting and it should be inspiring. It should be a help. I've never been through something like this before. I don't know what to do."

He put his forehead on John's shoulder. "When you're happy, I feel better. When you're sad, I'm frightened for you. But worst of all is when you're away because I don't feel at all. I'm numb. I need your aid." He sniffed. "I'm depressing, aren't I?"

"No you're not." John turned around and hugged him. "You weren't ready, and that's okay. I told you, it's not important. We don't need to have sex to be intimate.. And, I feel the same, exactly the same. Yet you can't say you love me, is it because you don't know how to label it?" He sighed. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that we're together, if that's what you want. It's what I want, the only thing I want." Sherlock smiled and blinked, the water running into his eyes.

"I'm trying to love. I am. But…I've seen love in others. I've seen the passionate love of young couples and the smouldering love of people who've been together for half a century. I've seen it expressed in many ways—the giggle. The constant admiring stare. The gifts. The look of relief of reunion, even if they were only parted for a few minutes. The need to be forever." Sherlock gulped and blinked as the water ran down his head and into his eyes.

"I've seen the dark side of love. The passionate murder of a boyfriend's lover. Controlling love born out of fear of loss. Stockholm Syndrome. Dedication to the point of committing multiple crimes, both violent and otherwise. I've seen _Avery_." He pulled away with a gentle squelch and turned John to face him. "But I feel none of those things. Even familial love is alien to me. The closest I've felt is…safety. Safety in the company of Mycroft. Safety when I'm with you." He looked like a lost puppy. "Thank you for that feeling." He brushed his lips to John's, but started to laugh when the water flowing across his nose impeded his breathing.

"You saved me, did you know? If you hadn't agreed to move into Baker Street with me, I would have been homeless. My last landlord evicted me following a dispute over potentially hazardous chemicals. If I'd had to live on the streets…" His fingers absently brushed his injection scars, barely visible now, but once upon a time he'd been pock-marked. "I've always needed you."

"You saved me." John looked him in the eyes. "We saved each other. I know you're scared, love is terrifying. I'm scared myself, because I know you can't really feel for me… I'm going to end up worse off when you leave." Sherlock frowned at him. "_If_ you leave. Please don't." He looked pleadingly at him, almost begging with his eyes. "I need you."

"Why…would I leave you?" Sherlock took John's hand. "You're the only friend I've had. The only close friend I'll probably ever have." He remembered something Mycroft had said after he'd "died": _This is only going to compound his trust issues._

In a gesture hopefully of closeness, he put the shampoo into his own hands and washed John's hair. He thought that, as a primate, grooming one another was probably a good way to show affection.

John's hair was stiff, almost wiry, befitting his life as a fighter. It took less soap than Sherlock's own (largely because Sherlock's hair was longer, but also because his was far thicker) and soon there were large lumps of soapy foam falling everywhere. "Sorry," he half-giggled as a particularly vicious one made for John's right eye.

John was looking at Sherlock puzzled as he washed his hair. John tiptoed up and kissed him, catching him by surprise. Sherlock's eyes were open before he returned the kiss. "I love you." John smiled, he turned around and washed himself, Sherlock washed his back.

After a while, they got out of the shower. When they were dressed, John sat down on the bed, tying his laces. Sherlock sat next to him, and smiled at him, he seemed to be extremely happy today, so naturally, John was.

"Shall we roam the city like ordinary tourists, paying too much for our souvenirs and getting hopelessly lost?" For some reason, that appealed to Sherlock this morning—being someone he wasn't. Putting his experiences in the hand of chance. Maybe it was the shower, but he felt fresh, renewed, like you do after a proper night's sleep. Full of happy energy. He stood up quickly, a childish smile playing at his eyes.

"That sounds wonderful to me." Sherlock dragged him by the hand, out of the room, all the way out of the building. Today, Sherlock was closer to John than ever, and they finally looked like the couple they were. Many people spoke to Sherlock in french, nodding at John, whom assumed these were compliments, because he was grinning.

"Are you happy, Mr Holmes?" John pouted, raising an eyebrow. "Because I am." He nuzzled into his chest.

"I'm…content." There was still the shadow of Sherlock's mental conversation with Avery hanging over him, and the worry he'd come back, but aside from that, he was quite pleased. "Yes. Yes, I think I am happy." He pulled John into an out-of-the-way second-hand shop, full of bits and bobs and random things. He found a jumper for John and pulled it out to show him. It was (in Sherlock's mind) particularly atrocious, but that was most of the fun of it. Sherlock had decided he was going to buy it for him and added it to his little handbasket with a smirk.

After they walked around for a bit, Sherlock said he wanted to show John somewhere else. He took him to the local library, where he spent a lot of his time as a child. He showed him all of his favorite books, still in the same condition they were years ago.  
>"It's so.. quiet here." John whispered. "Very unlike the one in London."<p>

After the library, they were stuck for things to do. "I think we should go for lunch, i'm starving." For once, John chose the place. It was a very small restaurant, one that Sherlock had never been to.

Sherlock wasn't terribly hungry, so he ordered a bowl of soup. Most of the pleasure of the meal derived from watching John be happy. "Strange, the effect one life can have on another." He was staring, only half-aware, in one of his strange distant states. The soup was certainly not five-star, but it was still quite delicious. Sherlock dipped his bread in it and he ate it very slowly, savouring the texture on his lips. "We all leave forensic evidence in the lives of those we interact with. A fingerprint, a message, a fibre of ourselves. Sometimes far more. But always, always traces."

"Sometimes we just leave memories." He sighed. He remembered his friends in the army. "Sometimes, we don't have the chance to leave a message behind." He stopped eating. "Suddenly I'm not very hungry." He sipped his drink. Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. He couldn't possibly know why he'd took a turn. "I'm sorry, um. Yeah." His mind was spinning again, negative, horrific memories. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist on the table. _None of them cared about you anyway. _The voice was back, along with the memories.  
>"Where do you want to go next?" He forced out, his eyes still closed.<p>

"Even the memories are a trace, like the oil of a fingerprint on a centuries-old painting…once we're gone, our legacies remain." Sherlock snapped out of his semitrance. "You alright?" He looked John up and down. "No, you're not." He shifted guiltily. "I've said something." Yet again, he'd offended John in some way and he wasn't sure what it was. Rather than await the explanation he figured John was in no mood to give, he went on. "What do tourists normally do?"

"They take photographs, they wear silly hats and they drink far too much. We're not tourists, we're much better than that." John smiled, it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I think we should go for a walk, to anywhere, get lost in the country, that's what holidays are about." He finished his drink. "So, shall we?"

"Promise me no depressing discussions today." John nodded and Sherlock stood and paid the bill. Sherlock felt like walking north, and so they headed in that direction, more-or-less aimlessly wandering. "Let's talk about something happy, shall we? Compose poetry on the spot." He smiled. "It'll give us something to do. Your turn first. Free verse."

"Oh god, no I'm really bad at this." He laughed, remembering the poetry he sent to his ex girlfriends. "It's not my forte, I have no talents at all actually." He shook his head. "I can sing."

"Really?" Sherlock was surprised at this revelation. He'd never seen John as particularly musical (he'd always refused to play the clarinet in front of him). "I've never heard you. Not even in the shower." He tried to picture what John's singing voice was like, but oddly couldn't. "I'm not entirely averse to singing, myself, though it has been quite some time."

"I never sing in company. I have to be totally alone, since Harry made me feel awful about it." He sighed. "It's a really personal thing, I think I've sung in front of about two people. Harry and my mother." He laughed heartily. "You'd laugh." He shook his head. "I'd love to hear you sing, though."

Sherlock smiled and began singing softly, his deep voice gentle and melodious.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,  
>In the ranks of death ye will find him;<br>His father's sword he hath girded on,  
>And his wild harp slung behind him;<br>"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,  
>"Tho' all the world betray thee,<br>One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,  
>One faithful harp shall praise thee!"<p>

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain  
>Could not bring his proud soul under;<br>The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,  
>For he tore its chords asunder;<br>And said "No chains shall sully thee,  
>Thou soul of love and bravery!<br>Thy songs were made for the pure and free  
>They shall never sound in slavery!"<p>

He finished the song, eyes distant; he'd only meant to sing the first verse, but couldn't leave it there. He obviously chose the song for John—something about it reminded him of the man whose fingers his own gently brushed. "Yes. Well. The Minstrel Boy may not be the most cheerful of songs, though I've always been fond of it."

John was stood with his mouth open in utter shock. "Wow." He couldn't really say anything else. Sherlock's singing voice was more beautiful than his normal voice. John threw his arms around him. "I'm definatley not singing in front of you now." He mumbled into his chest. Sherlock laughed and returned his hug. "I don't want to leave France," he looked down at him, as if to say he felt the same.

"Unfortunately, the magic of a place relies on the fact that it's not what you see every day. There are millions of people who want to stay in London, but it's not a novel thing to us." Sherlock looked around. "Anyway, the odds of us being able to purchase a vacation home in the village are not high, as I'm sure you realize." With all their various medical problems (not to mention the fact that he was never able to finish the only case he'd had in months due to Avery being the perpetrator), far more money was going out than in, though he figured Mrs. Hudson was glad to give them a break. "If you thought central London was expensive, it's better not to show you the prices on the French Rivera."

A gentle breeze began to blow as clouds began to move in, but it wasn't threatening to rain yet. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the wind play with his hair. "Some moments, the world is perfect," he half-whispered.

"It's a shame." John sighed. "How long do you want to stay for? I've yet to order the tickets for the trip home." Sherlock said he'd think about it, as John guessed, he'd want to get back to some cases. "You decide where we go next, I chose the place to eat."

"I'm rather enjoying this, to be honest, this meandering." Sherlock looked at the sky. "Sort of like following a train of thought rather than a plan." They walked into the middle of a wide city square, where Sherlock sat on the edge of the fountain. "I need to thank you for sharing my happiness with me. I haven't been happy since…" He looked down. _Since Moriarty abducted you._ "Not even gently content. But here, with you, I am. And I feel like nothing is going to happen to us while we're on this lovely holiday."

"Thank you for making me happy." John smiled up and squeezed his hand. "My detective."

They walked around looking at shop windows for about half an hour before Sherlock decided he wanted to return to the field once more. John wasn't going to say no, because it made him feel closer to him than ever.

After the long train journey, (which always seemed longer on the way there than on the way back) they strolled down to the field, only to find that another couple had taken it upon themselves to sit in their spot.

Sherlock stared at the couple. He wasn't sure what bothered him more, the fact that it was his and John's exclusive spot, the fact that someone else shared it, or that it was on his grandmother's property (which, yes, currently belonged to Claire). "Pardonne-nous," he said, a definite clip to his voice. The couple looked up, the young man sneering. The woman, however, recognized Sherlock and her jaw dropped. "Jean-luc! Il est Sherlock Holmes!" The man lowered his sunglasses to get a better view before standing up. "Je suis honoré de vous rencontrer!" Sherlock refused to take his hand, instead practically barking "Partir-vous. Maintenant." The couple scattered quickly, obviously not wanting to provoke Sherlock.

Once they'd left, Sherlock looked at the ground—the imprint of the couple was still visible—and frowned, pained, as a child whose toy has been taken away and smashed.

"It's fine." John noticed he was glaring at the ground. "I brought a blanket," He pulled it out of the satchel he'd been carrying and threw it on the ground. They slumped down onto it, Sherlock still fuming about the couple who had sat there. "Calm down, they weren't doing any harm." Sherlock's head snapped to look at him as if he'd said the worst thing in the world. "What?" John frowned, "They were just sitting here."

"It's the principal. Everything we do…gets violated." Sherlock put his hands to his head. "Every little thing that's private to us, stolen." He took a deep breath. "Sorry. You're right, I shouldn't be this upset. It's just a place." He leaned back to look at the clouds which were now starting to look a bit more ominous.

"Did you bring food? A picnic would be nice. Just you and I and the birds and flowers." He looked hopeful.

"I brought some sandwiches and drinks, oh yeah and some cake." He smiled over at him. "And as for everything being violated, we just need to work through it." John cleared his throat. "We just need to carry on the way we are now, this is nice, isn't it? I mean, last night went further than I thought it would, but you trusted me." He lay down next to him, reaching out for his hand. "That's all we need to do, carry on the trust we have, and work through the flashbacks."

"Who needs a therapist when you've got a friend?" The comment was half-sincere and half-sarcastic. "I mean, yes, friends can't prescribe medication if you find yourself in need of it, but a therapist can never understand you in the way that someone thrown at you by chance and who's stuck by you can." The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as if to start a smile. "And sometimes," he said, taking John's hand and holding it quite tightly. "Sometimes a bond is so close that it renders all need for chemicals irrelevant."

He wanted to keep their picnic happy, but he wasn't sure about the conversation to have so he took a sandwich and spoke around it. "Not honesty hour, but I'd like to know about your school days. What sort of non-academic activities did you participate in?"

"Football, hockey, cross country and swimming. I used to obsess about my fitness." He remembered when he used to fall down with exhaustion, due to lack of hydration and food. "I'm glad I stopped in the end. I pushed myself too hard, I used to collapse and end up in hospital. What about you? Chemistry club?" He mocked.

"Boxing. Fencing." _Solitary sports._ "I didn't socialize much. No friends. Everyone thought I was a freak, particularly after Carl Powers' death caught my attention. I showed far more interest in the dead than I ever did the living." Sherlock smiled. _Some things never change. _ "Completely skipped eleventh year. Mycroft dragged me out of Switzerland and back in school. Didn't miss a beat, though." The memory was bittersweet. "He managed to keep it from both my parents and the school that I'd been arrested." He examined the clouds. "Twelfth year was the same as all the others. Far too clever for my classes, no friends, parents ashamed of me, idiot teachers and even more idiotic peers. Came back to find the whole school upset that I hadn't died."

A water droplet hit Sherlock on the nose. "Starting to rain," he said, and pulled John to his feet. By the time they'd reached the nearest structure, they were soaking. The little roof was small above their heads and it barely kept them from getting any wetter. "This is becoming a pattern," Sherlock said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You and I, soaking wet and in a fairly small space. Twice in one day!"

John laughed, placing one hand on Sherlock's chest. "You know, I was hated in school too. People thought I was a bit of a prick because I stood up for myself, I never really had any friends." He looked down at his feet, kicking the water off them. "You know something? You're the only person I've ever trusted, completely. I didn't even trust the people in the army, I was constantly looking over my shoulder. But somehow, you're so different. I know you won't betray or hurt me on purpose, and I love you for that. Thank you."

"Trust issues," Sherlock muttered, slightly pained at 'on purpose'. "I'm surprised. I would have thought you'd have been one of those popular children that everyone adored. I've seen your long list of female contacts, after all." He hugged John tightly. "You're the only one I trust with nearly everything. More than my own family—well, more than Mycroft. More than anyone. I'm glad you trust me, even after what I've done."

The thunder started to rumble more closely and the rain got harder. "Looks like we're stuck here for a bit."

"We could go and see your friends, if you like. We'll be a bit wet, but we'll cope." Sherlock decided against it. "Right, so we'll just wait until this goes off then. I um, I wanted to ask. You know next time we try what we did last night, do you think it'd be better if you lead? Because, if you do, there's less chance of you having a flashback." John looked away, embarrassed. "Just a suggestion."

"Better for me, probably. Not sure about you. Repressed memories can come back at any time, and I don't want to remind you of Avery either. We can't both lead." Sherlock looked out from their hiding place. "Let's make for the bistro. There'll be a fire on."

They ran across the village square, squelching and slipping once or twice, and slid into Louis's bistro soaking, muddy, and laughing. All the other customers looked up to stare at them, which only made them laugh harder.

Louis came over with two bowls of warm soup. "Sherlock never could resist playing in the rain," he told John, eyes twinkling from behind their aged sockets. "And the soup is…on me."

Five minutes later and Sherlock was shaking with cold, but smiling. "For being so m-miserable, I'm incredibly happy." He felt the need to say it. He never knew why; it was as if he had to point it out to himself.

When they'd had their soup and thanked Louis, Sherlock said goodbye to him, as if it was the last time he was ever going to see him. He told him that he planned on coming back this holiday, but it was like he said it just in case.

They were on the train when John brought up the conversation from before. "It's your turn to lead, when you're ready. I need to get through the flashbacks too." He pulled on Sherlock's sleeve until he held onto his hand. "So, where to next? I've no idea what time it is."

"Four thirty." Sherlock thought for a few seconds. "I've honestly run out of ideas for activities. Well, except the massage. Never had one. And, well, a holiday is a holiday. No time like the present." He was staring out the window. "Strange, the countryside. Aside from that village, all I see is the potential for unsolved crimes. In the city, there's always a security camera or people around, but here, in isolation, there could be half a dozen crimes right under our noses and we'd never know."

"I think you need a massage." He laughed. "I'm usually to nervous to let people do that, because of my back. I'll wait outside for you, I brought a book." John snuggled into him to get warm. "I love you." He muttered„ before he fell asleep for the rest of the train journey.

Sherlock shook him away gently. They strolled off the train, John yawning and stretching all the time. "So, we should get a cab to the massage parlor, shouldn't we?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked at John firmly but not unkindly. "You need one, too. But I don't want you to be uncomfortable." They entered the building, and gentle music barely audible to John (though Sherlock could hear it far more clearly with his keen not-blown-in-battle hearing) floated toward them. Sherlock booked the most expensive one, and turned to John as he opened his wallet. "Sure you won't give it a go? I'll give anyone who gives you grief a severe talking-to."

"It's fine, I'm far too self conscious about my scars… You can give me one later though, if you're so bothered." He smiled. Sherlock said goodbye and went in for his massage, leaving John to read his book. Whilst he was in for his massage, John felt very strange. It had been a long time since he wasn't by Sherlock's side, and it felt as if there was something missing. _Stupid. Getting so attached He can do anything without you, but you're just pathetically infatuated._ He shook his head, to make the voice go away, but instead, he spent the next half an hour being told how much Sherlock would prefer Irene.

Sherlock was a bit nervous—making himself so utterly vulnerable for even just a massage was something he wasn't used to, but he found himself melting under the warm hands. He'd meant to be studying the method so as to be able to help relax John, but instead he fell in a sort of trance of relaxation. Perhaps it also had to do with the aromatherapy candles and the dim lighting.

His mind wandered to the years he spent as Sigerson, running around the world, trying to stay one step ahead of Moriarty's lackeys. He'd been cold in the Himalayas, colder than he'd ever been. He hid in New York City, just one face among millions. He'd wandered Morocco, but only after three years could he come home. It'd felt like a rebirth when he "died", and returning to Baker Street made him feel grounded, secure, stable, home again.

It was possible he'd fallen asleep as suddenly the woman was gently calling his name. He thanked her and redressed, mind still primarily in the past, but working its way to the present.

Sherlock emerged to find John staring out the window, his book abandoned and his face (what little Sherlock could see of it) was contorted. Something was troubling him deeply and it wasn't the sunset. "John?"

"Nothing. I forgot to take my meds this morning, but its bearable. How was it?" Sherlock went on to tell him how it was, but John couldn't focus on it, his mind was spinning once more.

When they got back to the hotel, John immediately took his tablets. The voice stopped. "Oh god, I feel so much better now." He sat down on the bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his jacket. "So, what do you want to do?"

"Eating dinner would be nice. Ah. I know the place." Sherlock picked up the hotel room's phone and made a call, obviously making reservations at a restaurant. He stood and moved to the door, John following. Sherlock wasn't going to tell him where they were going, he'd booked in French so John wouldn't understand, and anyway the name of the restaurant was in French.

Their cab pulled up outside a restaurant called Une Table au Sud. "One of the top five-star restaurants in the city." Sherlock smiled. "Only the best." They were shown to their seats and handed menus. Sherlock ordered for the both of them and before long, the most posh food John had ever seen arrived at their tables.

"No, John," said Sherlock as John raised a forkful to his mouth. "You have to savour it. Sense it slowly. _This _is cuisine." He demonstrated by taking a very small bite and closing his eyes as he ran it over his tongue and teeth, an explosion of delight. "You have to live it, not devour it."

John did the same, not really seeing a difference and chuckled. "I'll eat politely, dear." The food was delicious, alongside some fine wine, they went hand in hand. "It's so nice here, thank you for bringing me." He sipped on his drink. "I'm only going to have a glass or two, I don't want to get drunk." Sherlock smiled, he wasn't drinking, so it must have been a relief. "So, plans for the rest of the holiday?"

After they left the restaurant, they walked home arm in arm. It seemed as if Sherlock was trying to impress John; this was working so far.

"I can't actually think of any. Museums are so boring, you won't want to go swimming, and I've exhausted any other ideas. And it's only the end of the fourth day of seven." Sherlock looked sad, partly because this week was mostly over, and partly because he needed to give John some answer he didn't have. They went up to their room, and as they sat on the bed, in their pyjamas, Sherlock made a bit of an odd request.

"I want you to tell me a bedtime story." He lay down, putting his head in John's lap. He said this partly because it would give him insight into John's current thought processes, and partly as a gesture of trust. "The only person who ever did was Mycroft. His stories got a bit predictable after a while. I want to know the stories you were told. Or have you make one up."

"There was one that Harry told me when I was little, about a little boy called Johnny." He laughed. "It's quite silly. It's about how he ran away and made friends with the animals, are you sure you want to endure it?" Sherlock nodded, smiling like an exited child. "Fine. Okay."

"_Johnny was a little boy who loved adventures. He loved to get covered in mud and climb up trees. He never liked or fitted in at school or home, because he longed to travel to faraway lands. One day, he decided he was going to. Johnny climbed out of the window just after his father had gone to bed, using nothing but his bedsheets. Once he had reached the bottom, he walked towards the forest. He walked for hours until he reached a small clearing beneath the trees. There was a small cottage, that was lit, and looked warm. He decided to knock, just for a place to stay, but instead he found it open. The fire was burning and the table was set. Somebody had been expecting him. As he sat down to the ready made meal, the most delicious one he'd ever tasted, he decided what he was going to do. He decided he would sleep the night and carry on walking tomorrow._

_He did. The same as the day before, and this time, he found another cottage. He did the same, and left a note. 'Why is this happening?' and he continued on his way._

_After three days of this happening, he decided to stay. That day, the strangest of all the creatures strolled in the house. He had blue fur and pink eyes, and paws the size of dustbin lids. "Who are you?" Johnny asked, but he didn't reply. Instead, he went into the kitchen and made him some tea. "If you can't tell me that, then tell me why this is happening." The creature cleared his throat and spoke. "You are the runaway, the savior, the one that is going to defend us. It has been foretold." Johnny shook his head. "No, I can't be! I only ran away for an adventure!" He couldn't believe it! "Then an adventure you shall have, young Johnny."_

"Okay, it's too long, I'll tell you more tomorrow." Sherlock whined like a disappointed baby.

"If you insist." Sherlock was feeling small. It was strange; a good sort of small. Safe. Protected. He was thinking of his own experiences with running away from home, which had been glorious but wrong—a young, brilliant, deeply troubled teenager, all alone as he roamed a continent. He'd slept in wherever he could find to shelter him. No cushy cottages with ready-made meals. He'd been lucky to get three meals a week.

Sherlock smiled sadly. "Your childhood was so much simpler than mine. So normal." He didn't say anything after that because he'd fallen asleep, laying on the edge of the bed, his head in John's lap, slightly curled.

John stroked his hair like a cat. He didn't think his childhood was that normal, Harry only told him those stories to block out the sound of his dad beating his mum. The flashbacks were haunting him, as they always had, but so much more now that he'd reminded himself. He silently began to weep, trying not to make a noise or movement because he didn't want to wake Sherlock up. The worst memory he had was the one of his mother lying on the floor whilst his dad kicked her in the head repeatedly. It seemed so raw now, so fresh, the shock and hurt felt like it was cutting him open. Eventually, his shaking woke Sherlock up.

Sherlock's subconscious had heard John's crying and had put it into his dream—John in the dark, crying alone. But soon he awoke. "John?" He was more asleep than usual due to having been snapped out of REM sleep and his voice was groggy. "John, what's wrong?" Sherlock sat up and examined his face as best he could in the dark. The clock red 3:22 AM. "You haven't slept. Um. Would you like me to try to tell you a story?"

"I want a cuddle." He threw his arms around him, sobbing. "It was so horrible, Sherlock. I remembered everything." He was shaking against him, unable to stop. "I must have blocked it out until i told the story. You're the first person I've ever told it to." Sherlock was patting him on the back like he was a baby. "I love you." He sobbed, until he fell asleep on his shoulder from exhaustion.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do, so he did what he would have wanted John to do—he held him. "Shhhhh, you'll be fine." He just sat there, holding John, listening to him cry until he fell asleep. It was five in the morning when John stopped shaking.

_I wish you'd quit doing that to him._

_How was I supposed to know he'd unsuppress memories? All I did was ask for a bedtime story._

_It's almost criminal when you don't notice how badly you hurt him and how you've done it. And you do it so often._

_Then why has he stayed if I hurt him so badly?_

_I honestly don't know._

Avery was watching from the chair again, his expression tormented, full of anguish. If he'd been corporeal, Sherlock was sure he'd be throwing punches to defend the man he loved. Loved! The realization that Avery could give something Sherlock never could constantly hurt. But right now, Avery didn't matter—Sherlock himself didn't matter. John was what mattered, and he was twitching in his sleep as he sat slumped against Sherlock.

_Sing to him._

_What?_

_Sing to him._

Slowly one of the songs his grandmother sang came back to his mind and he sang it to try to calm John's nightmare.

Dodo, l'enfant do,

L'enfant dormira bien vite

Dodo, l'enfant do

L'enfant dormira bientôt.

He stopped after the first verse as John calmed slightly. "Please be alright," he whispered.

Johns dream was violent. His father strangled his mother to death in front of him and he had to defend Harry. For once, she was the one asking for his help. She cowered behind him sobbing, begging for her life. John stood up, he was an adult in this dream, but everyone else was as they were 25 years ago. He punched his dad in the face, breaking his nose. The man spat blood at him, and swung for his face. He blocked his hits. Then, he grabbed Harry. Small, childlike, defenseless Harry. Her red hair was being pulled out as she was kicked repeatedly, just because she begged for help. John reached for the nearest thing, a heavy award that he'd won for swimming, and hit him repeatedly with it.

He woke with a scream, scaring Sherlock out of his skin. "I'm.. sorry." He gasped. "He killed mum, he could of killed Harry." His mind was racing, round and round, he couldn't think. "God, what's happening to me?"

"Frightening me." The words came out quickly before Sherlock could attempt to temper them. "When we get back to England, promise me you'll talk to someone. Someone with professional training. Dr. Thompson." He handed John a pill. "Take your medicine today." He watched John take it before embracing him. "Make an appointment for next week. I'm going to sit here until you do."

"Fine." He made the appointment, shakily. Afterwards, he crawled back into bed. "I don't want to go out today.. you can if you want, but I'm really not in the mood." He pulled the duvet up to his eyes like a scared infant. Sherlock slid in next to him, slipping his arm around him. "Are you sure you have no plans?" He mumbled. Sherlock kissed him on the back of the head and clicked the television on.

_You're what's important. Say it._

"The only important thing to do is make sure you're fine."

_Close enough._

"We'll order room service and bad romance films and watch telly or whatever. I can't leave you."

_There you go. Now you're getting the hang of it._

_Shut. Up._

Sherlock tried to block out Avery's advice. He wrapped his arms around John in a protective embrace. "Don't give up on me. Don't give into your demons. Like I said earlier, if there's anything you need, anything at all, I'll find it for you. I need you to be right."

_Even if what you need isn't legal._

_Yes, thank you, I wasn't going to point that out specifically._

"I just need you." He mumbled. He turned round to hug into Sherlock's chest. "Thank you." He inhaled Sherlock's smell, which, despite his cold exterior, was warm and comforting. He listened to his heartbeat whilst feeling the rise and fall of his chest, calming himself. "I never want to lose you, I think I might go insane." He nuzzled closer to him, it was almost impossible to _get_ any closer. "Do you think you'll ever love me?"

_No, you can't, can you?_

Sherlock felt his pulse increase and knew John could hear it. He wanted so desperately to cry at his own failings. He knew Avery was right—so far, his whole life, he'd never known love. Every other emotion in various degrees, but never once had he felt anything he would classify as love. His voice cracked. "I don't know."

_Yes, you do know._

_Shut up, I'm doing my best. I can't give him any more than that. Now go away._

He pulled John's head into his neck. "I don't want to lose you, either." _I can't._

"I'll wait forever, if you need me to." He sighed. "I know you need me… Have you ever felt anything? A little spark?" His hands were up Sherlock's shirt because it was warm. "I'm sleepy, but I'm too scared to try." He yawned and leaned up to Sherlock's face, kissing him on the nose. "I need you too."

"There was…something, right before the operation. I don't know what it was. Desperation? Helplessness?" Sherlock whispered, trying to find the right word. "It was…somehow I knew that if I had been wiped completely that I'd still know you. I'd still find you. Even if I was gone, I'd still understand that you meant something. The forensic evidence you've left in my mind is by far the strongest of anyone I've met since I grew up." He held John, partly to say he'd never let him go, but mostly to pull him away from the very vivid hallucination of Avery who'd crawled on John's other side.

_What part of "get out" don't you understand?_

_You make it sound like I have a choice._

"Why can't I love, John?" His voice was feeble as he held John close. Normally he wasn't too keen on physical contact, but this was an occasion he felt he had to give and to receive.

"Because you're detached, something I've always envied." he sighed. "But lately, you've felt happiness, despair, fear and helplessness. They are all the things that make up love. I think you need time to feel it, and I'll wait as long as you need. Even if you never love me back.. I'm going to be here." He moved up the bed so he was looking in his eyes. "I trust you, completely. I've never been able to say that. Trust issues." Sherlock frowned, he was confused and hurt, John could see it in his eyes. "I promise you."

"Like tasting the ingredients of a dish but never the finished product?" Sherlock chuckled, more in an attempt to fight the confusion than an actual expression of relief. "We're pathetic." Suddenly he pulled John close again as Avery reached out to join the hug.

_Don't you dare._

_He's not going to notice._

_That isn't the point._

_Fine. I'll just watch._

The image of Avery rose and moved to the chair once again. Sherlock released his grip which had been a little too tight. Sherlock swallowed. "I…I think I need one of your pills."

"That's not a good idea.. The side effects are very much like your old ones, and it's been _very_ difficult not to try anything on with you. I wouldn't want you to go through it as well." He sighed. "I'm not sure your body could take it, mine barely can. Can I ask, why?"

"Nightmares," Sherlock lied. If it was the same stuff that did him no good last time, why would it be any different this time?

_That's not very nice. I have been giving you tips._

_I don't take love advice from serial killers._

_Yes, you do._

"Thank you for your restraint. I don't remember most of what it was like on that medication—I guess I was Avery most of the time." He tensed at the thought.

_Don't feel too bad, he never let me have my way with him._

Sherlock bit his lip, fighting every urge to shout at his hallucination. "I need you in control. You need to be in charge of yourself, John." A thought occurred to him, one which made him feel better when he was having trouble. "Would you like some sleeping pills? I know I slept fantastically with the combination of the two medications." _I need the calm, too_, he didn't say.

John pulled away. "Don't talk to me about 'being in charge of myself'. You're acting like this is silly. It's not. It's difficult." He sat up. "You weren't in charge of yourself, I was. I had to be." He went to the window and sat down. "Just go out or something. Do what you like. I'll deal with this on my own, I've done it my whole life, why should it be different now? I'm being in charge." He looked out of the window, pure anger seeping through his pores. Sherlock was confused, he didn't know he'd said anything out of line. "You said I need to be in charge of myself, after I've been triggered. It was a dark place in my mind that was blocked off for a reason. I opened it up for you, and here you are, acting as if its something so easy to overcome."

Sherlock had always experienced sharp commands as the best way to snap someone out of a bad moment and so had reacted that way. It was how he'd always been treated, how he'd always been taught. He didn't know it was wrong.

"Fine. If that's what you need." He hadn't meant it harshly—he was wounded, in fact, but he was sticking to what he said earlier. Anything John needed.

_No. Don't do this to him._

Sherlock was ignoring Avery as he slid on his shoes, ignoring the fact that he was in his pyjamas as he walked out the door. He turned his phone on, making sure that John could text him if necessary, and left the hotel, his mind spinning, not caring that he was speaking aloud to someone who existed purely in his mind.

_What if he tries to kill himself?_

"He wouldn't."

_He did before._

"That's why I took his pills, or didn't you notice?"

_He's in a hotel with a balcony, alone and frightened. You of all people know how harsh a mistress gravity is._

"Shut up, just shut up!" He whirled to face the nonexistent Avery. "I don't need you telling me how to live or act or anything. I tried to burn you out of my brain for a reason." People were starting to stare now. "I don't know why you're still here. I don't care. Leave. Me. Alone." He kept walking along the street, hating himself for being an uncaring block of ice, hating himself for not knowing what to do next. Eventually, he stopped and went inside a small cafe and just sat at the table, perfectly still, blocked inside his own head, trying to figure out what his next move should be.

**From Sherlock's blog:**

I think I may need official relationship training.

Barring that, couples' counselling.

I don't know what I'm doing. Everything I say is wrong. I don't know why it's wrong. I don't understand why what I'm saying or doing gets the reaction it's getting. I don't know what's wrong with me. Beyond the fact that I seem to be psychologically incapable of love. Why am I even in a relationship if I know how badly I'm going to foul it up? There's a reason the relationship between Natalia and myself was defined by intellectual sparring matches with bloodstreams full of cocaine. It was the only way we could bond. John and I don't have either of those. Why am I trying this? I just feel like stopping now before it hurts either of us further, and stamping a great big "FAILURE" on the file marked "Romantic/sexual relationship experiment". Because when it comes to that sort of thing, I am a miserable failure. I've learned that much. An utter, complete, rotten failure. If John takes me back (or is it he who needs taking back? I don't fully understand what just happened), I'll be even more confused—honestly, I'm not sure why he's stayed for so long.

Even Avery, the _serial killer_, can have a healthier relationship than I can. John even told me that if he'd been in a different body, they would have gotten along, probably even been friends, which is far more than he and I are doing right now. (John and I, not Avery and I. Obviously.)

I shouldn't be blogging when I'm in this state. I am, quite uncharacteristically, a bit of a mess.

**Texts to Mycroft:**

I think I need your help. –SH

Answer your texts. Please. –SH

Mycroft? -SH

You plainly don't understand the magnitude of my current distress. –SH

Please, Mycroft. –SH

Sherlock? What's going on? Tell me what's happened. - MH

For God's sake, Mycroft, I had a split personality! The Bird's Foot Trefoil killer—that was me! A personality created by the trauma of what happened with Moriarty. I had an operation to get rid of him and we thought it worked. I could have lost both personalities and you were nowhere in sight.

I can't understand what I'm doing wrong. We came to France on holiday to be happy, but I said or did something and he's having problems and he told me to leave. To make matters worse, I'm actually seeing and hearing Avery—the other personality—and I haven't told John and I'm on the verge of panic so it's hardly surprising that this message is out of the usual pattern.

Where the HELL have you been?

**Sherlock's blog:**

John: Calm down, come back.

Sherlock: You forgive me? You want me back, even after everything I've done wrong? Even though I don't know what I'm meant to be doing and foul everything up?

John: I overreacted, come back, I miss you.

Sherlock: I don't understand.

But I think I can accept not understanding.

John slipped out to the balcony; the sky seemed darker than before, but maybe that was just his mood. His mind turned to the fall, imagining what it would have been like to be in Sherlocks position. It was easier for him, he could run away- But John had to stay behind, John had been the one who grieved. He was the one who had to deal with the depression and the heartache. He inhaled the cool air, so much cleaner than in London, trying to calm himself. He slumped down into the chair next to him, and looked at the view. The city seemed so quiet, he imagined Sherlock walking around still in his pajamas. It seemed like hours since he'd left, so John pulled out his phone.

TextTo Sherlock Holmes

Come back, I'm sorry. -J x

from John Watson

Sherlock's fingers were shaking too badly to send a reply. He ran out of the little cafe at full speed, crashing into quite a few people on his way back to the hotel, running dangerously through the streets. His emotions were out of control, relief and fear and self-blame a poisonous cocktail in his heart.

He bashed the lift buttons, knowing that it wasn't going to make a difference but trying anyway. When he opened the room door, the first thing he did was look for John and saw him sitting on the balcony. Sherlock reacted a bit more panicked than normal—he grabbed John by the arm and pulled him inside before holding him in desperation and comfort.

"Stay off the balcony," he said in a voice somehow both pleading and commanding. He was mumbling now, his reason on the verge of abandoning him as his mind saw the slow decline of John's mental health that started when they'd met. "I'm a poison. Not healthy. A drug? Why else would you stay?" He was holding John tightly as if he were a child clinging to a teddy bear in the middle of a storm. "One day, my venom will kill you and I can't find the antitoxin. I'm destroying you. Avery's right. One day I'll find you're nothing but a husk. A shell I've hollowed with my noxious behaviour and I don't even know how I'm doing it. Acidic personality. Addiction? Are you addicted to me? Something that's utterly destroying you and you're too high to care?"

"Stop it." John whispered. "It's chemical in the brain, love. It makes you do crazy things, people die because of it." Sherlock was shaking, terrified. "I need you, I don't feel complete without you, I can't function properly… I don't care about the consequences, I really don't. I love you too much to care." He was breathing quickly, panicking. He put his hands through Sherlock's hair and pulled him in and kissed him, as if he was never going to again. Sherlock kissed him back, different to his usual, much more passionate than usual.

"I am a drug, you're high, a hopeless addict; we all have our addictions and you're hooked on me, too unwilling to see that I'm no good for you so you'll keep injecting yourself with me until it kills you." Sherlock's mind was a blur, he wasn't in control of his body or his mouth. The words were coming straight from somewhere dark in his mind, without a filter. His arms were wrapping around John, a mass of uncontrolled flesh. "I am your heroin, your cocaine, your morphine, your acid. You can't stop taking me if you wanted and it will utterly destroy you." This was all true in Sherlock's eyes, an expression from his soul, and he didn't register Avery, utterly entranced and insane, gleeful and voyeuristic as Sherlock flung John to the bed. "You're more addicted to me than I could ever be to you, but you don't care because when you're high, you're happy and you're just another junkie looking for his fix."

Sherlock had unbuttoned John's shirt, the strange fit driving him to give John the fix he thought the soldier was after. He was licking and nuzzling and holding John so hard there were going to be bruises. "But there's no rehab for this, for me. No way to wean yourself off this toxin." He was dizzy, no way to grasp hold of himself and release him from the most unusual fit that was causing him to strip John to his underwear.

Sherlock was telling John what to do, like unbuttoning his shirt for him and grabbing his hips. For once, Sherlock was completely involved, and his mind was not elsewhere. Everything was moving so fast, Sherlock was already unbuttoning his own pants and grinding into him. His mind was spinning, probably due to the shock of it all. Sherlock was biting his neck, so hard it was drawing blood, but he didn't stop, John wasn't sure he wanted him to.

Sherlock was holding John down with his body, limbs oddly strong for appearing so frail. He was warm, temperature elevated with the explosion of chemicals in his body. His pupils were doing the strange dilating-and-contracting that seemed unique to Sherlock in the throes of passion. Sherlock was tasting blood and it felt so right. "Inject me into your veins. Shoot me up, snort me, inhale me." He continued to bite sharply at John's neck, almost animal; far different from anything he'd done before, almost Avery-like. But it wasn't Avery, thank God. Just Sherlock in a strange, strange state, now intentionally biting hard into John's collar and lapping up the blood that came out, every muscle quivering with pleasure and excitement. "I am every chemical addiction the world has ever known—a massive dose of destructive pleasure, forbidden and yearned for." His voice was almost psychotic as he mumbled between sharp bites. He was drawing significant blood now, not noticing he was straying too close to vital blood vessels and biting into major muscles of the shoulder, violent, dangerous, fevered. "I am what you cannot live without, your dependency, your all." There was no distance between them now, all traces of decency lost in the madness of the moment as Sherlock's fingernails were starting to tear small holes from John's arms and his teeth took ever more vicious chunks from his neck and shoulders, John's blood staining the bedsheets.

John could see his blood all over Sherlock's mouth, dripping from his mouth as he spoke. All the while, he was thrusting his hips into him, holding his wrists down. He stopped biting him when his blood started covering the bedsheets, nothing dangerous, but any more could have been. Sherlock moved down his body, muttering all the while, his voice sounding manic and menacing. He kissed all the way down his chest up until his groin and then he moved back up, whispering in his ear. John pulled his hips into his, causing him to groan; his whispers becoming shouts.

This was so strange of them, particularly of Sherlock. He'd always been traditional in the rare moments of lovemaking, but something in his mind was majorly screwed up at the moment and the blood excited him further. For a time he'd stopped the bloodletting but now he couldn't resist as it started to pool on John's wounds and he dug his fingernails into John's chest and tore long strips of flesh from his torso. His mumbling was growing manic, disconnected, alien, the words coming from no language existing. He seemed like something conjured out of a strange nightmare rather than something real. John's blood covered him, and he rubbed himself in it until he was crimson, his peculiar, almost inhuman moans quivering with elation, some parts of his mind completely shut down and others glittering with life.

Finally Sherlock actually screamed rather than shouted as his body could take no more and he fell back onto John, silent, laying in the hot congealing blood that separated himself and the former soldier, his own blood too warm and every inch of his chest and face stained bright red.

John screamed at his flesh was clawed at, mostly out of pain, rather than pleasure. He could feel his blood streaming out of him, he could see the manic and animal look in Sherlock's eyes, so inhuman and wild. He suddenly fell onto him, obviously it had gotten too much for him, because he was panting and groaning as he tried to lay still. John could feel his wounds gaping, stinging, almost feeling like copper, being pressed on. He didn't know what to say as Sherlock licked the blood from his own hands and lips, he was slightly afraid. It was as if Moriarty had had his way with him all over again. John's mind wandered, his memories flooding back like they had burst out of a dam, he shrieked as he realized that his skin was peeling from his chest. "Sherlock, what do I do?" He panicked, gasping for air as the man lay on top of him.

Sherlock's mind was still mostly gone, but John's panic set him off. He realized what he'd done, how he'd reawakened something John was never supposed to remember, how John was twice violently triggered by what he'd done, how what he'd said was true—he was destroying John. In his strange fit that was almost like a spectacular high, he howled with the terror of the realization and ran from the room, naked and covered in blood. He made it to the lift before collapsing, terrified, hiding in the corner of the lift as it went up and down.

_Animal. All that great mind, all that control and it slips for a minute and you turn into an animal._

Sherlock didn't even have the temporary sanity to reply to Avery, standing over him, threatening stature and raging face. He could do nothing but sit in the fetal position, soaked in John's blood, rocking back and forth, whimpering, frightened more of himself than anything else in the universe.

John had to pull himself up, in agony to dress himself. Sherlock had ran out with nothing on at all, he had to find him. He padded down to the lift; it was about three am, so nobody would be awake anyway. The lift came back up and he was cowering in the corner of it, sobbing and punching himself in the head. John grabbed his arm and pulled him out and threw a bed-sheet around him. Sherlock's legs had given out, from shock and terror, so John flung him over one shoulder and returned to the room. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in the bed and scream, but he had to suppress it; he'd done it in the army, so this wouldn't be that hard. Sherlock was howling, and whispering to himself, as if there was somebody else there, somebody who wasn't John.

Then everything clicked into place. "He's back, isn't he?" Sherlock nodded with a sob, and threw his arms around John, childlike and horrified. "I understand, you couldn't help it… Hang on, I need to gauze myself up."

Sherlock couldn't think, couldn't focus, wasn't sure who was real and who wasn't. So instead, he was saying everything in his mind as it came to it, Avery standing beside John, just as concerned.

"Wasn't Avery, it wasn't Avery, Avery is outside not inside, I did it, I did it, it was all me and I actually _enjoyed _it." He curled into a tight ball again, rocking uncontrollably. As John bandaged himself with the room's first-aid kit, Avery kept Sherlock company, trying to comfort him, and in a strange hyper-vivid hallucination, hugged him protectively as he lay naked and terrified.

_Shh, it'll be fine, you'll be fine._

"Love is hate is pain is pleasure is fear and everything is nothing." He had fallen over sideways, still in a ball, and was hitting himself in the head quite hard, as if trying to bash his brain back into place, rather than the gentle smack of someone trying to remember something. It was going to bruise.

"Madness. Blood and animal and nightmares come to life and make it stop!"

_Don't do that. Don't, you'll hurt yourself._

He was screaming and hitting himself still harder, his not inconsiderable strength causing his vision to twinkle with every blow and his tears running tracks through the caked-on blood on his face.

"Hope turns to sorrow turns to anguish turns to relief turns to fire turns to death turns to shattered splinters."

**Sherlock's blog:**

ruined fear anguish hurt pain suffering blood animal monster nightmares screaming torment begging pleading make it stop cruelty abuse power hate violence murder death why empty trying failing falling not again please God not again imploring desperation darkness blackness drowning torn to shreds insanity loss mindless help me

**Text to Mycroft:**

help me I think I nearly killed John there's blood everywhere and he screamed and I screamed and the open wounds and I made him unrepress memories and with my bare hands and my teeth and why did his blood taste good please help I think I've gone completely mad

"Sherlock, stop." John grabbed his fists and sat next to him. "It's as much my fault as it is yours, in fact, it's mostly mine; I shouldn't of started it." He lay down next to him. "It's okay, I've had worse pain! I've been shot remember." Sherlock was shaking and whispering words that didn't fit together in a sentence. "Shh, it's okay." He put his arms around him like a barrier to the world around him. "Your mind must have become detached, Doctor Hussey _did_ say that would happen, that you could become violent. Don't blame yourself." John was shaking himself, so much that he had to take some painkillers from the table beside them. He winced after he'd swallowed them, because his neck was still hurting from the biting.

There was a knock at the door, which was, at first, ignored, until it was accompanied by a shout of "La police!" at which point John had to open it, leaving Sherlock curled and whispering and starting to hit his head again.

There were three men there, in police uniforms. Two were plainly officers and one appeared to be an interpreter. They looked at John's neck (the rest of him was covered) and shot looks of worry at one another. They entered and regarded the terrified figure on the bed, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, the blood now caked on him, dried. John had to hold Sherlock's arms again to prevent him further damaging himself.

The policeman began to speak in French and the interpreter translated: "We received an unusual report this evening, screaming followed by a man running from the room naked and covered in blood. Naturally, we have come to investigate."

Sherlock began to mutter again, this time in French as his mind couldn't figure out what language to use. "Le sang, le sang, tant de sang, et c'est de ma faute et il aurait pu mourir—je suis un monstre, je suis fou, que ça s'arrête avant que je tue à nouveau." (Blood, blood, so much blood, and it's my fault and he could have died—I'm a monster, I'm insane, make it stop before I kill again.)

The policemen looked at him nervously but decided to carry on in spite of Sherlock's apparent complete breakdown. "We need to ask a few questions, the first of which being for us to tell you that if this goes to court, anything that is said right now may be used as evidence. Now, please tell us, what precisely happened?"

"He's under medical care, really, there's no need to worry." John protested, but they demanded that they speak to him alone. Sherlock stayed motionless in the bed whilst John explained the embarrassing details to the police officers. They asked him if he wanted to press charges. "No! Why on earth would I do that? He can't help it, he's under the care of one of the best doctors in Britain, there's no need to worry at all." John managed to convince the police, but they took down details anyway, saying that they'd be back before the week was out if they were still in town.

Sherlock was sobbing into the bed, still in shock. John put a blanket around him and got him a drink. "It's not your fault, Sherlock. I don't blame you." He whispered in his ear, whilst rocking him like a baby.

"Why was it good? Why did it feel right to do something so wrong?" Sherlock's speech was still nonsensical, rambling, far from his usual clipped diction. "The blood in my mouth, in my throat, on my lips, the screaming, the bruising, why was it good? It was fever-brilliance, it was pleasure, it was supernovas and angels and the glory of a thousand twinkling stars." He couldn't focus, couldn't think. It was like he'd been smashed against an iceberg. "There's a demon in my soul, in my heart, in my mind, and it's winning, I'm becoming Moriarty, evil and violent and insane."

_The fact that you realize it makes you better than he is._

"I've nearly burned the one thing I ever cared about in vile, hateful, twisted, magnificent, delicious, incomparable passion; it was wrong but it was good and why, why was it good? Demon devil nightmare witch." Avery leaned in and took his hands.

_You're not a monster. Please, be strong. Do this for us. For John and yourself and me._

"Not you, never you, stay away from him, don't you dare touch either of us again or I'll rip your throat out with my teeth." Sherlock lunged for the Avery who wasn't there, ran for nothing, smashed through the glass door to the balcony headfirst, collapsed, and began violently vomiting bright red—John hadn't realized he'd swallowed so much blood.

"You've swallowed about a pint." John murmured. "Calm down, he'll go away soon, I promise. I know I said I don't want you to take my pills because of the side effects, but you need to." He passed him a large glass of water and a pill. "I'm going to clean this up.. I don't want the hotel sending the police again." He found some cleaning solution in the cupboard in the bathroom and scrubbed the floor. He could hear Sherlock shouting at Avery indoors.

When he'd finished cleaning, he came in. "Do you feel better on the medication?"

He looked at John with hollow eyes. "It hasn't stopped the screaming," Sherlock said, his voice flat. The sound of John's scream of pain hadn't stopped repeating in his head, like a stuck record. "And Avery's still there."

_Of course I'm still here. Not really anywhere else I could go._

"I don't feel well." His legs gave way and he fell onto the bed—he flatly refused to take up the chair in which Avery seemed to have taken up permanent residence. "I need help, John. Why else would I find such pleasure in—in what I did?"

"Masochism." John muttered. "Alongside the mental issues you've been suffering, it's not going to go well, is it?" He lay down in the bed and pulled the covers over the both of them. "Come here," He pulled him in for a hug, "I forgive you." Sherlock frowned and looked up at him, surprised. "It wasn't your fault. Tomorrow, we're going to the field again, okay?"

"You mean sadism," Sherlock whispered. "How was it not my fault? _I _was in my head, it wasn't Avery. That was pure, raw, unfiltered _me_." He carefully put his hand to John's wounds. "The worst of it is that I don't regret the wounds. I…was _excited _by them—I'd do it again if I was as…in the moment. It was awakening your memories that caused my panic."

He lay with John, watching his face until he knew he was asleep; he really didn't want to be near anyone right now, at least not physically. Avery was talking gently, improvising poetry and, of course, smoking. Then he got up, taking a pillow with him to the bathtub where he curled up and cried himself to sleep, every fibre of his mind either shouting at him or diagnosing him. Only Avery was telling him things were going to be fine, curling up behind him, gently singing to him as he dropped off into nightmares of John screaming and Moriarty congratulating him.

John sighed. "Yeah, sorry. My minds jumbled." Shortly after, he dropped off to sleep. He didn't dream, which was strange for him, instead he had a good rest. When he woke up, Sherlock was gone. "Sherlock?" He jumped up and looked around the room. "Sherlock?" He heard a quiet sob from the bathroom. John knocked on the door. "Can I come in?" He didn't reply, so he went in anyway. He was in the bath, cowering. "Come on, time for breakfast." He helped him out of the bath and picked up the pillow. He called room service, and told them that he'd broken the window by accident- the bill was going to come up to one thousand dollars more. "We're going to the field today, I'm going to pack a picnic, get changed love." He kissed him on the top of his head, trying to act normal, it was for the best.

The scratches on Sherlock's face and torso from breaking the glass door were nowhere near as severe as John's recently-inflicted wounds. But they still hurt as John had been unable to pick out all the glass. Sherlock was feeling feverish but better as he slid his black shirt on—black for his mood, black to hide any stains.

He knew what he'd done to John would scar him. The M that Moriarty'd left had been scratched through with harsh vertical lines. _I mustn't think about it. Today we have to be happy._

Sherlock turned away when he caught John getting ready, but then remembered John had already felt the need to be ashamed and so turned back to face him, looking straight at his forehead so he wouldn't have to see what he'd done.

_Thank you for not abandoning him._

Sherlock firmly ignored Avery. Instead he helped John put on his jacket, knowing that his shoulders were in pain. "Sherlock Anonymous," he muttered, his previous day's thought (him being a dangerous addiction to John rather than an honest love) continuing to plague him.

"I think…" This was something hard for Sherlock to say—he'd always been stubbornly independent, relying on few others if any. "I think I need to see a psychological specialist, too."

"Can we go together? I don't like being without you anyway." He looked down at his feet, not wanting to make eye contact because the subject was still a sore one. "I meant what I said, yesterday. You were right. I am addicted to you, but it's not an infliction… I'm happy I am." He looked up with a saddened look in his eyes. "In other words, I love you." He tried his best to smile but his face felt heavy. "I know you think you're dangerous, but please don't leave me." A tear fell from his eye. "Please."

"We really shouldn't go together. Though I'm sure we can arrange for overlapping sessions—two-thirds of a session for you, two-thirds together, and then two-thirds for me." Sherlock didn't point out that he had no idea how they were going to pay for it as John was still on leave and Sherlock's cases were few and far between (and even further if word got out about his troubles) "I won't leave you, not unless you want me to. Not again." In an unusual gesture, he wiped John's tear. "Tell me when I'm hurting you. Even if you have to do it with your fist."

Sherlock didn't look at John the whole train trip to the village. Claire had met them at the station by coincidence again, and had seen their injuries. Sherlock had dismissed it by saying it had been a drunken brawl. Claire plainly didn't believe him, but something in his tone told her to go away and she did.

When they got to the field and laid down in the grass and flowers, Sherlock took John's hand and stared at the sky. There was a warm sensation in his other hand, as if another hand was sliding into his.

_I love being here, just the three of us._

Sherlock sat up suddenly, yanking his hands away, and turned to Avery. "Can't you give me one moment? Can't you spare me your obsessive need to butt in?"

_I love you too much._

"No, you're a stalker. A stalker in my head that only I can see and nothing I do will make you go away." Sherlock turned away from his hallucination, violently, and after a few moments, lay his head on John's chest to just listen to his heart, the wind, and the distant birds.

"I want to try again." John muttered. Sherlock sat up and asked him what he said. "I said I want to try again." He was shaking. "I want us to try properly. Nobody is leading." John's head was spinning, and he was unsure of the words that were tumbling out of his mouth. "We need to try until it works." _You'll only make him feel bad again, that's all you're good for. _"Please." The voice was screaming, the pills had stopped working, and he was shaking. "Help me."

"Not in the field." The field was sacrosanct, somewhere for childlike wonder, not for adult passion. Sherlock really didn't want to, but John seemed to need this. "Not here." He stood up and looked around, but only the massive windmill greeted his eyes.

"I don't…I don't know how…the windmill." It was an actual mill, the wind causing the massive turbines to spin, grinding the wheel inside. Shagging in here was a bit of an unusual move, but Sherlock could tell that John needed the dose of endorphins as soon as possible. _He needs his fix._

"If you need me to stop, you have to tell me." He was glad this was such a remote location, as he knew his newfound sexual habit would frighten anyone who could hear, and he wasn't sure he had the restraint to stick to traditional methods. "I'll try not to get carried away," he said as he removed his jacket and hung it up, eying a haystack and watching as John lay his picnic blanket on top.

"Are you sure about this?" John mouthed between Sherlock's dominant kisses. He was pulling at the buttons of his shirt to signal that he was. Sherlock was mumbling in the same way that he was the first night they tried this. Sherlock was kissing over his wounds, gently, trying not to hurt him. John pulled his face back up to meet his mouth, wrapping his arms around his shoulders although it hurt to move his arms. "I love you," John whispered into his ear, "Thank you for doing this for me." Sherlock stopped and looked at him, grinning.

"Yes." Sherlock's physical passion was growing, which meant his mind was switching off. He began to groan, his mind addled by the leftover drugs in his system from yesterday, the smell of the flowers, and a slight strange dissociation—Avery had placed his hands on Sherlock's and was moving them.

Sherlock couldn't help it. He started biting again. Gently at first, but more and more powerfully. "Craving."

_You shouldn't do this._

The harder he bit, the more frenzied he got, the more he craved John's blood. The only place that was safe was John's left shoulder—Sherlock treated John's war wound with respect. Was John protesting? Sherlock couldn't hear if he was; the yearning for blood was too strong. The more he smelled the iron liquid, the more he felt he needed to cover himself in it.

_He's lost too much blood already. You need to stop._

The animal passion was starting to control him, and he bit in the wrong place—a vital vein was now open and squirting.

_STOP!_

Avery hit him, and it was enough to snap him out of the mania. He realized what he'd done and for a split second, he didn't know what to do. John was losing too much blood too quickly. But then he came back into place and flung his hand to John's neck, holding the wound shut.

"No, no, no." Sherlock picked up his phone and dialed emergency services. "Stay with me, John, don't black out, talk to me." He couldn't believe what was happening; his own desire to protect and help John may have killed him. He was screaming at John not to die until the paramedics arrived.

"Sherlock, stop." John was hitting him on the chest trying to get his attention. "Sherlock please!" He was trying to push him off, but when he did so, a large chunk of flesh ripped. All John could see was a large spurt and then everything blurred. "Sherlock.." He was trying to mumble, but it was drowned out by blackness. He could hear screams of panic and worry, but it was hard to make out what was being said.

He could hear voices around him, shouting and fast movements. His neck had something on it, probably a bandage blocking the flow of blood. Suddenly there was a hot, yet cold shock on his chest, making him gasp for air, his neck aching. "Where's Sherlock" he managed to murmur before he passed out, alive, but only just.

"No, please, let me—angh." Sherlock needed to stay by John to know he was fine, but at the same time wanted nothing more than to flee. The only thing keeping him from utterly dissolving right there and then was Avery, holding him, shouting at him to stay in control of himself.

The paramedics wrapped him in a blanket (he was in too much shock to remember to reclothe) and brought him in a separate vehicle to the hospital. John understandably needed transfusions, and Sherlock was ineligible to donate, despite having an O blood type. He'd hurt him and couldn't help to rectify his error.

They'd had to give Sherlock sedatives to calm him. The police had asked questions, and, Sherlock being who he was, told the entire story. They were confused as to why he'd been so honest, and until they figured out what to do, forbade Sherlock from coming within ten feet of John. He moved a chair to just outside this radius and watched John's feeble breathing, unable to rest and occasionally vomiting large quantities of blood—more than last time.

John couldn't feel anything but the blackness surrounding him. He couldn't move his arms or legs, he felt restricted, as if he'd been frozen. He wasn't sure how long he'd been like this, he wasn't sure what was going on around him, all he could hear were sobs and begging. The words weren't clear, but he could sense that somebody was there. He tried to speak out, but the words were lodged in his throat. He couldn't even blink, as much as he tried. He tried as hard as he could, using as much of brain as possible to move. Then he felt something. A burning sensation on his neck, a cool one on his hand. He could feel something sharp in his arm, and something rough down his throat. His eyes flickered, and he was in a white room. Everything was blurry and the room seemed as if it was tipped on its side. There were soft sobs coming from near him, but his brain couldn't locate in which direction it was coming.

Sherlock was talking through his tears—he couldn't yet see that John was conscious. "Rough gay sex with a man with a history of lifelong mental issues and a cocaine problem? You're an idiot, John Watson." He chuckled sadly, the sedatives causing the emotions to flow. "You're my idiot. I still don't know why. Do you have a death wish? I don't want to see you die. I can't lose another friend." He fell into another fit of sobbing at the thought. "I can't be the one who kills you. Please, I beg of you, don't give up, even if it does seem easier."

John was trying to speak, but instead he started coughing. Sherlock gasped and moved close to his face. His eyes started to focus, and he could see that his eyes were red and puffy. "Sherlock," He managed to choke out, the effort straining on his throat. Sherlock was smiling at him in relief, kissing his hand. "What did you tell them?" His voice sounded like a whisper with a rough edge to it. The pain of his neck suddenly flashed into him, causing him to cry out.

"Don't speak," Sherlock half-commanded. "I told them the truth." At John's shout, nurses came running to check his pain medication and several of them threw Sherlock dirty looks. He quickly retreated to the legally safe zone. "I can't come close. I shouldn't. Legal reasons. I told the police everything." He was having trouble watching, because he could see Avery comforting John, rubbing his head soothingly (though of course, John could neither see nor feel him). "It's been two days." Sherlock hadn't slept. Between constant harassment from the nurses, his own worry, and bouts of self-loathing, there was no way he could sleep, even on the constant regimen of sedatives he needed to keep him from hysterics. He hadn't taken time to eat, either. "I can't handle this. We need to do something."

After the nurses gave John morphine, the police came in and shooed Sherlock out of the room. "This is a very serious matter, Doctor Watson, we urge you to press charges." They went on for about ten minutes talking about how much of a threat he was. "No, all he needs is medical attention. Come on, it's not as if you arrest people for bondage? This isn't any different, it was just unexpected." The police took notes and said they wanted to contact his doctor. "His contact details are with Sherlock." John sighed. The police eventually went away, leaving John to rest.

The police came to Sherlock, who was sitting in the waiting area, trying his best not to talk to Avery. He was exhausted and worried, and had just discovered that somehow already the British tabloids were discussing what was going on here. The police urged him to see his psychiatrist the minute he returned to London, and he agreed—it was his plan to begin with. He gave them Hussey's contact information, regardless of the fact that technically he'd been off his medication since the operation and ought to have phoned for refills, not to mention come in for follow-up visits.

The visiting rules concerning Sherlock had changed. He was only allowed to be in the same room as John for two hours out of every twenty-four, and was only still allowed in France because John hadn't decided to press charges. Sherlock heard the psychiatrists talking, throwing around terms like "Stockholm Syndrome", and Sherlock lay down on the couch doing his best not to shake, worried that he'd done more psychological harm than he thought he'd done.

The nurses spoke to John and told him he wouldn't be able to leave France for another five days. He was advised to stay away from activities that would danger his health, and he was told to get a lot of rest.

When Sherlock was allowed back into the room, he looked tired. "Go to sleep, they won't mind if you nap in the chair." John was speaking more now, the morphine had taken effect. Sherlock refused, in case anything happened, although the chances of that were slim. He sat next to him and held his hand, not letting go. "I'm going to be okay. All we need to do is talk to Doctor Huseey and put you on a series of pills. It's going to be fine." He smiled, warmly, although he was scared.

"The last round of pills did me no good," Sherlock pointed out. He'd never looked so hollow in his life. He shut his eyes. "I haven't officially told you. I'm hallucinating Avery. Constantly now. He's stroking your face." His voice dropped. "I think you were better off with him as a lover. He would never have hurt you like this." The police came in again.

"Monsieur Holmes, we need to ask—"

"Psychological evaluation. Yes. I understand." Sherlock stood up and went with them. They gave him harsh looks for violating the ten-foot radius restraining order, but didn't say anything about it. Instead they escorted him to the hospital's psychiatrist, where he was asked numerous questions about his drug use, sex life, past abuse, and hallucinations. He told the complete truth, of course (with the exception of the fact that his split personality was a serial killer). He knew that while he was in here, John too was undoubtedly being questioned, and he hoped John wouldn't try to lie to protect him. That would only make it worse.

After about two hours, he was allowed to return to John, but a guard had been posted in the room to make sure Sherlock kept his distance. "How goes the day?" Sherlock asked, exhausted.

"What you said before, I don't agree." John sighed. "I don't want him to be my lover, or anything else for that matter. Me and him have discussed this, and he understands. I love you. I'm going to work through this with you, no matter how long it takes." John reached over and squeezed his hand. "What does Avery have to say about this?" John winced at the image of Avery sitting in the room, smoking a cigarette smugly. "And then, I want your opinion. The honest one."

Sherlock repeated Avery's words as he spoke them. "There's nothing I want more than the two of you to be happy together. It hurts to see you in so much pain, both of you, whether physical or mental. Please, get help. John, you nearly died at Sherlock's hands. It's a miracle you're still dedicated. Sherlock, you think the best way to solve this is separation—different flats for a few months. But you're wrong. You can manage with both couples' and individual therapy. I love you both; you know how much I do. You can fight through this."

Sherlock opened his eyes again, and they were frightened. "I don't like taking the advice of the hallucination of a ser—" He remembered there was someone else in the room. "Of a violent alter-personality. Even if he does have many of the social intuitions I lack." He sighed. "Also…the tabloids have picked up on this." He showed John the article, which went into frightening detail about their recent troubles, and certainly painted John as the victim of a sadistic, unemotional lover.

"You know how I feel about the press. They're heartless, they're ruthless, and above all, they're always looking for the next big thing to jab at. I don't care about what they think, quite frankly, I never have." John was getting quite agitated with Sherlock because he acted as if they were important. "I told you they were going to turn on us." He muttered. "They have done, and I couldn't care less. I'm in a relationship with the man I love, and yes, it's problematic, but worth it." Sherlock could see that John wasn't going to change his opinion. "And I don't want to move to different flats, it'd feel wrong."

"Your loyalty is…touching." Sherlock smiled softly. "I think, though, for a while, we should compromise and use separate bedrooms again. At least until whatever drugs are going to be in my system start to take hold." He didn't want to, but he wanted to hurt John less. "It won't be permanent, of course."

The police reentered the room and spoke to Sherlock in French. "Vous devez retourner en Angleterre. Maintenant." Sherlock looked at the policemen with first panic, then understanding. "Me laisserez-vous lui envoyer des emails?" The policeman nodded slowly after a few seconds. "John, they're, uh, they're deporting me." He took John's hand and the police stepped forward to pull him away. "I'll email you when I get back." He asked the police to collect their things from the hotel room. "We just have to hope I won't be bombarded by the press when I get there."

John sat in the hospital for the rest of the day, wondering what to do next. The nurses came in and changed his bandages every few hours, and dosing him up with morphine, but he was left alone otherwise. He decided he would text Sherlock, he wouldn't receive it right away, but at least he'd know that John was thinking of him.

_ToSherlock_

_What did the police say to you? Don't do anything silly whilst I'm away- No body parts in the fridge! x_

He wasn't technically allowed to send texts in the hospital, but he didn't really care. He had to stay for five more days without Sherlock, and he felt awful already. He sighed, and pulled out a book that Sherlock had been reading. John hadn't noticed that he'd brought his old 'relationships for dummies' book with him, it made him chuckle.

John's phone chimed at half three in the morning.

_Check your email._

_S_

_To:John_

_Arrived in London without incident. Except for the fact that half the plane wanted my autograph and the other half treated me as though I were some sort of demon. Fortunately there was no one from any manner of press to greet me._

_Mrs. Hudson inquired as to your whereabouts. I told her you'd been attacked by an animal. Near enough the truth, and she didn't press further. She's always been good about knowing when I'm upset and understanding how I wish to be treated. One might even say she's the mother I wish I'd had._

_You'll have to forgive the oncoming sentimentality; I couldn't sleep so I've taken one of your sleeping pills. I can feel it starting to work._

_The flat is too quiet. The bed is too cold. The air is stale. Hamish, while still smelling of you, isn't the same. But it'll have to do for now._

_Sleep well, John. You'll be back here soon._

_Sherlock Holmes_

John's phone chimed again.

_Avery sends his goodnight wishes as well._

_S_

_Tell him I said goodnight._

_I'm watching Pirates of the Caribbean, wish you were here.- J x_

John hadn't slept well at all, he couldn't get comfortable, and everything was too quiet. The nurses had promised he could leave tomorrow, but he demanded to leave early.

Back at the hotel, he was in a different room as the room they had previously been in was seen unfit to stay in. This room was a single one, with no balcony or bay window. He'd just got comfortable in the bed when Sherlock texted him. He checked his email as he'd been told and replied.

_To:Sherlock_

_I can't sleep, everything is too quiet, and no matter how hard I try to get comfortable, I can't manage it._

_You left your scarf, I'm guessing that was on purpose? Well, either way, it comforting me somewhat._

_Tell Mrs Hudson I'll be home soon and I send her my best wishes._

_I miss you, hopefully the next few days will pass by fast, otherwise I think I'm going to be miserable. Keep me posted on what happens, goodnight love. -John x_

He turned on the television and decided to watch Pirates of the Caribbean, whilst hugging Sherlock's scarf. The next few days were going to be excruciating, but he'd endured three years, so he could cope.

Sherlock stared at the computer, somewhat perplexed.

_To: John_

_I hadn't meant to leave my scarf, but it's good that you've found it and that it's bringing some measure of comfort._

_I've spoken to Dr. Hussey and made an appointment for Thursday—I may not be able to meet your plane._

_I've not been bothered by Avery for a while. Which on the one hand is nice because I don't have to see him looking like a mirror of myself, but on the other hand is quite irritating because now I haven't got anyone to talk to._

_I feel better; not as black. Though I have had to constantly use your sleeping pills to sleep. Otherwise. Mm._

_Sherlock Holmes_

John sighed. He had meant to hide his sleeping pills for this reason.

_To:Sherlock_

_Don't take too many if they don't work, they were meant to be hidden. If you get bored I have plenty of books and DVD's, and my other wallet is in my bedside cabinet with the weekly grocery money, make sure you get something, you know how much I worry._

_Try and keep yourself occupied, I'll be home soon enough._

_I'm going to take my medication now, so I'll most likely pass out. I love you. - J x_

They seemed to be going back and fourth with goodnight messages, saying the same things over and over. John decided it would be best if he went to sleep so the night would pass faster.

He turned the television down, leaving it on in the background so he wouldn't feel alone and he snuggled up into the bed clutching the scarf at if it was his only life source.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said aloud.

_To: John_

_Don't worry, I'm only taking the recommended dose on bad nights, the rest of the time I'm taking half that. I just need a sedative to calm my mind so I don't have to hear you screaming in my head when I'm trying to sleep._

_The horrible memory flooded back and he swallowed._

_I shouldn't have mentioned it. I apologize. But I feel far more rested than any other time in the past few months, except when I'm taking these._

_I visited Molly in Bart's today. Had coffee in the laboratory where you and I first met. Talked about cats. Bought groceries, and there's a gift for you on your bed._

_Still no sign of Avery._

_I do miss you. I'm looking forward to Thursday afternoon when you're back in London._

_Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock swallowed tonight's sleeping pill, switched off the light, and held onto Hamish gently.

_Complaining about being bored isn't nearly as entertaining as it is when you're here._

_S_

_I miss your complaining! I hope you're behaving yourself, hasn't Greg got any small cases for you? - J x_

_No. And besides, small cases are boring. -S_

_Well do something productive, love._

_I'm trying to convince the nurses to let me go home early, but so far when they come to the hotel to check, they're having none of it. - J x_

_At least you're out of hospital._

_I suppose I'm not as bored as I could be. But I'm still quite bored. Haven't even got Avery to talk to. -S_

_Watch some films, read some books._

_Do something so I know you're not bored._

_Missing you. - J x_

_I suppose I'll practise my violin. It's only going to be two more days. -S_

_I can't wait to see you. - J x_

_Well, you'll have to. You're in your hotel, correct? Could you not Skype me? -S_

_Good idea! :-) - J x_

_Already opened it. -S_

The next morning came with a splitting headache. "Sherlock," John groaned, reaching out in the bed for him. To his confusion, his arm hung off the bed. Then he remembered. He reached out for his phone straight away and texted him.

_I forgot you were at home just then, I woke up all confused. I miss you, this is tedious. I hope you're well, love. -J x_

He sighed. Not long until he could go home, now. The television was still on from last night, but it wasn't showing anything. John flicked through the movie channels, settling on 'Bad Boys'. He hugged Sherlock's scarf as if the man was wearing it.

The nurses came at about three o'clock to change his bandages and give him more medication. John almost begged them to let him go home, but they refused, and said they wanted to stay a few more days.

_They won't let me come home yet. God I feel so awful being away from you. - J x_

Sherlock picked up his phone and read the messages before shutting the box he'd been in and opening his computer—the brevity of texting couldn't convey his thoughts.

_To: John_

_If the doctors think you need the fresh French air rather than the smog of London, you shouldn't argue. Doctors make the worst patients._

_For my part, I'm having a feeling I haven't had since Mycroft went to university. It's strange; I thought I would never miss someone like that again._

_I feel as though I'm detoxing, though. Every day I'm apart from you, I feel fresher. Perhaps it's not to do with you. Perhaps it's the alteration of the daily routine._

_Despite my…loneliness, things are looking better for me here. I've stopped Avery from showing up. I feel more level, less emotional. Even though I still can't sleep on my own, I almost don't mind taking the sleeping pills._

_And there still aren't any cases. But I'll be able to talk about all of this to Hussey tomorrow._

_Keep me informed of your status._

_Sherlock Holmes_

He pressed send and flexed his fist around Hamish's arm, feeling childlike and cold, but knew it wouldn't be too much longer before he had John at his side again.

John sighed. At least Sherlock was getting better.

_To:Sherlock_

_I'm glad you're okay. I wish I could hug you right now, I feel cold._

_I hope you've been eating three times a day._

_Keep busy._

_I love you._

_-John x_

He pulled himself up with some effort and walked into the bathroom, removing his bandages and clothing and climbing in.

The water was hot and sharp against his wounds.

When he was dried and clothed, he went back on his laptop.

_To:Sherlock_

_My cuts are itching, and that means they're healing. Hopefully the nurses will see that when they come and visit me later on this evening. I might be allowed home soon._

_Maybe. Probably not. But I hope so._

_We're going out to dinner when I get back._

_-J x_

He folded up all his clothes and put any other belongings in a suitcase, determined he was going home in the next day or two.

When the nurses came to see him, he told them he was going, whether they liked it or not. "Doctor Watson, we'd really prefer if you stayed, we need to keep an eye on you."

"I want to go home. I'm a Doctor, I can look after myself."

"Well, then we want you to take a ferry and then a train home, flying is far too dangerous."

When they left, John decided that he wasn't going to tell Sherlock about him coming home, and that he was going to surprise him.

Sherlock frowned at the email.

_To: John_

_I've only been on one meal a day. Pointless to eat when you're not hungry._

_Nice to know you're healing. Let me know when you're on your way home. Wouldn't want to be caught unawares for dinner—surely you remember Buckingham Palace._

_Sherlock Holmes_

_PS. Do inform me as to your flight details. I'll meet you at the airport since your delayed return means it won't conflict with my appointment._

He sat back in his chair with a sigh. Tomorrow he'd meet with Hussey for his first official appointment with a psychiatrist since childhood.

John decided that he wouldn't tell Sherlock either way. He'd surprise him. If he left on the ferry tonight he could get back via train tomorrow morning. Sherlock would be out, so John could slip into the house and arrange a surprise for him.

_To:Sherlock_

_I'm going out for a walk, text me if you need me. I miss you. - J x_

It was about six o'clock, and the ferry left in 30 minutes. He called a cab to take him down to the port. The air was cold, luckily, John had worn his jumper and coat, and put on Sherlock's scarf to cover his wounds. The ferry needed to wait thirty minutes for other people to board.

John decided he would call Doctor Hussey about more medication for him back at Baker street.

Sherlock took his sleeping pill for the night, and just as it started to take real effect, John's text came through.

_I always need you._

_S_

He fell asleep with his phone open and on top of him, peaceful in the knowledge that John was safe.

After John got off the phone with Doctor Hussey, his phone chimed with a text from Sherlock. He smiled, Sherlock's sleeping pills must have started working.

_Goodnight my detective._

_-J x_

The ferry had been moving for about twenty minutes, a long way off. He had about four or five hours ahead of him, and then a two hour train journey. He decided that he would read Sherlock's 'relationships for dummies' book.

Sherlock opened his eyes in the bright English sun, his mind still at ease from the sleeping pill and the dreams he had while he was on it. They were strange, simple dreams—vague floating colours like wisps of smoke, the occasional spark flying through his optic nerve and ambient noises like computer-generated oceans. Far better than the pinball-machine dreams which left him stressed.

He staggered to the bathroom, still woozy, and started his shower. As the warm water woke him up, he looked down at his own scars, both old and new.

_What are you doing to yourself?_

He started. He hadn't expected Avery's voice (and it was undoubtedly Avery—his own voice would not have been tinted with such bitter concern). "Trying to rid myself of you," he answered aloud. "From all of this. And it's working."

He finished his now-usual morning routine, putting everything back in its place, and drank his morning coffee. _ Strange how I feel better without John, when that was the one thing I thought would make it worse. Then again, there are other factors at play. _He put his dishes in the sink and made for the door as his taxi arrived.

_Off to Hussey._

_S_

He switched off his phone as he got out of the cab and entered the clinic. He was calm, cool, rational—his old self. And this was before therapy. Perhaps things were going to be alright after all.


	5. Danger in the Blood

John arrived back at the flat at about 1 o'clock, Sherlock was still with Doctor Hussey, because his phone was off. He greeted Mrs Hudson with a warm hug and a detailed 'report' of the animal attack he'd supposedly endured. He asked her to keep it a secret that he was home, she nodded with a wink.

When he got upstairs, he decided he'd tidy up the living room and make Sherlock something for lunch.

Everything was set on the table when he heard Sherlock coming up the stairs. "Surprise!" John smiled at him. He had to hold back from flinging his arms around him as soon as he came in, in case he scared him to death.

For once in his life, Sherlock was surprised. "Oh," was all he could manage. His head was still wrapped up in the conversation he'd had with Hussey, but seeing John made him break into a small smile. "You're early." He regarded John's (and presumably Mrs. Hudson's) efforts at a lunch and sat down to eat it. "Not particularly hungry," he said as he took a bite. "I suppose you bullied your way out of the hospital, then? You wouldn't have healed quite that quickly." The fact that he could talk about what had happened at all was a good sign, though his pupils were dilated slightly more than usual. "Welcome home," Sherlock said. "Though you ought to have told me you were on your way. I'd have made lunch for you instead of the other way around."

"I thought I'd surprise you," John smiled from across the table. "So, how did it go with Hussey?" Sherlock didn't look too pleased, because he grimaced at the sound of his name. John decided to change the subject. "Have the sleeping pills been working properly?" He didn't quite know what to say, Sherlock seemed to be in a bad mood over something. He picked at his food, nervously, in case he'd annoyed him by coming home.

"Yes, they've been working. I have my own now, as well, so I don't have to keep stealing yours." Sherlock gave his flash of a smile as he picked up his sandwich to take another bite. A few seconds of silence passed. "I should tell you that I'm feeling back to normal. For me. If I seem colder than I have recently, it's a good thing." He took another bite. "You startled me a little bit. I wanted to welcome you back with a bit more pomp and circumstance and your early return threw a metaphorical spanner in the works." He looked a little bit like a teenager who was hiding porn from his parents, though—sort of guilty and trying to hide it.

**Sherlock's blog:**

Things seem to be beginning to return to normal. John's returned from France, and though I think it was a bit too soon, medically speaking, I expect he rather forcefully provided his own medical opinion.

I've found a way to stabilise my own condition. It does run the risk of chemical dependency, but it's nothing I haven't dealt with before. I feel almost back to my old self, as they say. I can think without the burden of overwhelming emotions again, which is a vast relief.

Following both Dr. Hussey's advice and my own logical idea, physical contact between John and myself is forbidden (with the obvious exception of little things and accidents) and we've gone back to our separate bedrooms. Far less likely to do damage that way. It just means we'll physically return to where we were before our courtship began. Unless John's psychiatrist tells him otherwise, which, given the circumstances, wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. In fact, I'd be rather astonished if he's not instructed to take further steps to distance himself.

I'm also not meant to be taking cases for the next two weeks. I've not had one since the Bird's Foot Trefoil killings, and I was unable to finish that case properly. My last real case was in November of last year. I can almost feel my mind atrophying, the parts responsible for critical thinking turning into swiss cheese. Fortunately, my treatment helps dull the pain of that as well.

"So, everything is.. _fine_?" John raised his eyebrow, noticing his guilty look. Sherlock smiled innocently. "Mhm. Right, dinner tonight. My treat." He cleared up the plates from the table and put the kettle on. "I'm going to call Greg, in a minute. He can find you a case. You need one, because you're clearly bored out of your mind. Tea?" He got a cup out for him, but just as he did, Sherlock and knocked it out of his hand. "What the- what's going on?" Sherlock looked jumpy. "Tell me."

"Sudden onset of anxiety. I saw your neck." Sherlock frowned. "Time for my medicine," he muttered before retreating to his bedroom for a few moments. When he emerged, his pupils were dilated far more than they had been a moment ago and his speech was a bit too rapid, even for him. "Right, sorry, forgot about that. Six hours, not twelve like the last one. And I'm not meant to take it before bed. Next dose at seven. Not sure why I'm telling you." He scratched his head vigorously. "The high will wear off in about half an hour, but the effects will stay for about six."

He'd lost a few pounds since leaving France, which was a bit odd, but considering the stress they were both under, wasn't too out of the ordinary. His mouth twitched into the smile he used to wear. "Yes. A case. But nothing too important just yet—Hussey doesn't want me on cases at all until the medicines get in my system properly."

"Don't worry about my neck." He winced. "Go on, go and play your violin whilst I call Greg."

John went into his bedroom and called him. "You have to get him a case, he really needs it. He's not had one for a long long time." After about half an hour of reasoning, Lestrade finally gave him something small.

"Sherlock, he asks you to call him about the case details." John called into the living room. "It's small, but not too small." Sherlock stopped playing his violin immediately. "I'm going to go down and see Mrs Hudson, let me know what goes on."

Sherlock phoned Lestrade, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Lestrade asked if he was sure Avery was gone, and Sherlock said that yes, he was, and then thanked him for his help. Which, of course, dropped Lestrade into silence—Sherlock never thanked anyone.

They then proceeded to discuss their little case—two severed ears had been sent to the home of an elderly woman, and DNA showed they were not the same victim. Sherlock smiled, packed a small bag, and called down to John that they were going out to the woman's house right then.

He didn't get far, though, as he realized John was probably not healthy enough for such an arduous journey at present. So he went back upstairs and sat in his chair, absorbed in the details of the case.

It was three hours later before Sherlock opened his eyes. "What did you say?" He turned to see John asleep on the sofa. _What time is it? 6:57._ He rose from his seat to take his "medicine" in his room. As always, the first half-hour after his dose was manic yet soothed—his mind was muffled but it was restless.

So he watched John sleep, the scabs, particularly the one on his neck, oddly inelastic as he snored gently. Sherlock could smell the alcohol on his breath (he'd moved to the table to observe him more carefully) and frowned.

"After all that turmoil, after screaming at me for getting blind drunk, full of fear of me being like your father and sister, why did you drink?" It wasn't a plea, merely the detached question of a casual observer.

He sat on the table, just watching John, the back of his mind working at the mystery of the cardboard box, unraveling the puzzle piece by piece. Sherlock had been ordered by his psychiatrist (as well as the police) not to engage in intentional physical contact with John until they were certain his regimen of drugs was going to work. Though at present, he wasn't even tempted. He sat with his legs between the table and the sofa, head tilted as he observed John's REM sleep.

"What are you dreaming of, John?" he muttered.

"You," John mumbled, with a slight smile. He was in a comfortably pleasant sleep, but he was still quite aware of what was going on around him. Sherlock was sitting nearby, observing him, but not touching him because he felt no need to. John opened one eye, slowly, his sleep fading. "I'm sorry for drinking." He groaned. "I just thought I should spend some time with Mrs Hudson, and I don't like her drinking on her own." Sherlock nodded, but he was still thinking by the looks of it. "So, what are you thinking about, detective?" He raised his eyebrow, and then yawned, the exhaustion of the past few days had caught up with him.

"I'm thinking about how strange it is that two lives can so completely entwine that the membrane of social masks burst." Sherlock stood up and returned to his chair. "Two lives touch and, like soap bubbles, stick, sometimes forming other bubbles, sometimes not. Floating together, but staying two separate things." His eyes were dilated quite a bit now, both from the combination of drugs and the dark of the room. "Thinking about a sailor who sends an estranged lover the severed ears of his romantic rivals." He sent a text to Lestrade—he hadn't even left the flat and he'd solved it. "Thinking about us." He stared into the fire which he'd lit as he was speaking.

"Have you solved it?" John smiled, sleepily. "Well done." He stood up and went into the kitchen. "Cup of tea?" Sherlock was still looking at the fire, darkly. "Sherlock?" John turned round to look at him, and he hadn't moved an inch. John walked over and sat next to him. "Sherlock, look at me." It was like he wasn't there at all. John was waving his hand in front of his hand in front of his face trying to get his attention. John decided it was best to leave him, he grabbed his cup of tea and went into his room.

Sherlock came out of the maze of his own mind not long after John retreated to his room. He looked around as he had a question to pose, but heard John in his bedroom, typing by the sound of it and sighed. The distance between them had understandably grown since France, and while part of Sherlock was grateful, most of him felt a tiny bit abandoned.

There were questions he needed to ask, things that had been bothering him, but he figured it would best wait until John had metabolized the alcohol in his system. He changed into his pyjamas and played his violin for the next few hours, until the drugs wore off and he was able to take his sleeping pill and go to bed.

For some reason, John couldn't sleep. He decided that he's get comfortable on the couch and watch re-runs of The Jeremy Kyle show. He could hear Sherlock snoring softly from his room, and the strange thing was, he'd forgotten Hamish. John crept into his room and placed the bear next to him. Sherlock smiled in his sleep and cuddled up to it. He left the room to make himself some tea when he heard loud shouts from outside.

"John, come outside! Clara's cheated on me again!" It was Harry, drunkenly sprawled onto the step. "Be right there." John sighed, plodding down the stairs. He pulled her in off the step and took her up to the flat. "Right, what's happened?" Harry was sobbing loudly, trying to get her words out, but they didn't make any sense. "Shut up. You're going to make yourself ill, and you might wake Sherlock up. He needs his sleep. I've had a bit to drink tonight, too. My head is killing me, so calm yourself." He sat next to her and grabbed onto her hand. "Calmly explain what's happened." Harry sniffed and started to explain how Clara had been sleeping with the next door neighbor, (who had a much better job than harry- this always bothered her, she thought this was a major factor in the breakdown of the relationship) and she'd walked in on them in her own bed.

"I don't know why you're with her. She's horrid to you, look at what she's put you through! You're drinking yourself into an early grave; she could kill you!" John had never liked Clara, she cheated on Harry most of the time.

"Sherlock nearly gets you killed all the time, why do you stay with him?" She was wailing now. "He doesn't cheat on me, and me and him have a bond that I can't explain. But now is not the time to talk about me and him. You need to break up with Clara."

The next morning, Sherlock emerged from his room, frowning. "Before you ask, Clara cheated on Harriet again. She came round to talk to me and fell asleep, just ignore her. Tea?" John moved from under Harry's arms to the kitchen, scratching his head, tiredly.

Sherlock had already dosed himself with his medicine—he always did immediately after waking as he couldn't stand Avery being present for even a fraction of his day—so he was a little bit high at this point. Nevertheless, he could still function. "Mm. Yes." His questions would have to wait as they were not for outsiders' ears. He was watching Harry, wondering how similar the two siblings really were. He stared at her, pupils wide to the point where his irises seemed like a thin ring around them, taking in all the information even her sleeping form presented him. "You sleep the same," he said softly, looking at John.

"We're quite the same, apart from the hair." He nodded towards her red hair. "Your eyes don't look right." He walked in and peered into them. "Are they meant to be like that?" Sherlock was swaying slightly, still looking at Harry, and then to John, making quiet comparisons. John brought him orange juice instead of tea, because supposedly it was meant to take the edge of a high. Sherlock gulped it up and looked wildly around the room, looking for something, anything he could play with. "I'm going to get your violin." John coughed, and went into Sherlock's room.

"No, no, no!" Sherlock leaped up from the couch and into his room before realizing it made him look guilty. "Yes, that's meant to happen. Medicine. Foreign chemicals. Nothing I can't handle. No need to be my mother, you know." He realized he was holding John's arm quite tightly and let go, his voice calmer. "Sorry. Overreacted. Just…we're not meant to be going into one another's rooms, remember? Not yet. Doctor's orders." He put his hand to his forehead. "Stood up too quickly." He smiled a little, shutting the door as he urged John out. "Besides, we have someone else present and our personal issues are best not played out for an audience."

"No, you said we were going to be in seperate rooms, not about going in them." John sighed. "I'm going to make her some breakfast, whatever." He pushed him lightly out of the way and went into the living-room. "Harry, wake up." John shook her gently, and she turned over, groaning. He went into the kitchen to make her a bacon sandwich. Sherlock sighed and flopped down into the chair, rubbing his temples.

John ignored him for the next hour or two, he was in no mood for dealing with him.

Sherlock's pupils slowly contracted again as the immediate high of the drug wore off. He watched John the whole time, motionless and silent as John consoled his sister. He noted that John didn't offer to make him anything (not that he would have eaten much; he hadn't been terribly hungry since he'd gotten back from France and the drugs he was taking had a bonus side effect of weight loss, so he was shedding pounds rather quickly), though John did make Harry food and tea, and treated her like Mycroft had never treated Sherlock. Or like John normally treated Sherlock. "Have I done something to upset you? Beyond accidentally letting you get mauled." He waved his hand dismissively. The past was the past.

"You don't want me around, I get it." John mumbled. He was bustling around the kitchen, moving tins and putting away clean plates. "I haven't done anything wrong, though, so I'm confused by it all." He wasn't facing him, in fact he was trying his best not to. "I'm leaving you alone, like you want." He stopped moving and turned around. "Okay?" and with that, he moved back into the living-room to sit next to Harry.

"That's not what I want." Sherlock followed him into the living room, his voice somehow both calm and furious. "That is nowhere on a list of things I want." He gave up caring if Harry saw this—it mattered too much. "I don't understand your reaction. I literally do not understand it. There's a reason we have to be physically separated. We don't have to be emotionally separated as well." He stood in front of John, as close as he could be without actually touching him. "You're the only real friend I've ever had—why would I push you away? Yes, I felt better when we were apart, but I'd started my medication by that point. It wasn't you. If it had been you, I wouldn't have bought you that oversized stuffed animal. And you're right, I misspoke, we're still allowed in one another's rooms, provided there's no physical contact." His left hand twitched. "I actually really don't understand your behaviour. Explain."

"The physical barrier should only be sexual." John sighed. "You had no problem hugging me or anything, and Hussey has put all sorts of crap in your head." Harry coughed, and added: "I think it's obvious he cares about you regardless, Johnny." Sherlock nodded. "Whatever. I'm going in my room." John stormed off like a frustrated teenager, and slammed the door.

Sherlock shot a "what the hell?" look at Harry. He retreated to his own room for a few minutes before heading to John's. He got outside the door before he changed his mind. _Slamming doors—indicative of frustration, sending the message "leave me alone"._

He returned downstairs and sat in his chair, fingers steepled, ignoring Harry's presence, trying to work out what he could have done wrong. After a few minutes, during which Harry fidgeted, Sherlock looked up and straight at her. "Perhaps you can explain his behaviour. You are his sister, after all."

"He's sulking." Harry smirked. "You're not paying him enough attention and he doesn't like it. He's clingy and childish." She moved her hair out of her face, "He just wants all the attention on him, and he'll do anything to get it. I hate that about him." Sherlock was frowning at her. "What?" She sipped her drink and sighed. "He's pathetic, he doesn't really have a backbone. He joined the army to prove he did, and that didn't work out. His good points are his looks and his caring nature." She looked down at her nails and sighed. "I don't know why you bother. Nobody else does."

"Your brother is the best man I've ever known." Sherlock's voice was defensively icy, dangerously Avery-like. "Maybe you can't see that because your vision is tainted with your experiences growing up, maybe it's the alcohol. Either way, you're sorely mistaken." He stared her down, aggressive, but physically frozen in his seat. He felt a deep bubbling anger. He knew the two of them didn't get along, but he had no way of knowing how deep that resentment was. "Don't say another word against him. I've had trouble with violent impulses of late and I should hate to have to explain to Lestrade why there's a dead woman in the flat." Sherlock felt disconnected, as if he weren't saying the words. "Excuse me. I think I need another dose of my medication." _Despite the fact that it isn't time yet. _He stood up suddenly and retreated to his room.

John was repeatedly slamming his head against his wardrobe as he listened to Harry tearing into him. Sherlock said something inaudible, before going to his room. John crept out of the door, past Harry who wasn't paying attention, and he knocked on Sherlock's door. He opened it, slowly. "I'm not mad at you anymore. I'm sorry." Sherlock gestured into his room, welcoming John in quietly. He sat on the bed, looking glum. "What did you say to Harry?"

Sherlock heard John approaching his room and closed the drawer where he kept his "medicine". The new dose was already starting to work again, and his pupils were as dilated as they had been earlier, leaving his irises as nothing but super-thin rings. When John sat on Sherlock's bed, he pulled his legs away so they wouldn't be crushed. Sherlock's voice was strange and distant. "I told her that she got you wrong. That you were the best man I've ever known." He squinted and tilted his head. "Told her not to say anything like that again. Had to take more—I felt Avery or something like him coming through. A disconnect when I…spoke." Throughout the conversation, he'd been flexing his left hand into a fist and back out, like one does when one's angry or having blood drawn. "I, or maybe he, well, she'll see it as me, I threatened her a little. A lot." He blinked hard. "Is the medicine your doctor gave you the same as what I was taking before my operation? You may as well have it if it is. No idea where you've put it, though."

"She hates me, no matter how much I help her. And yeah, but I don't want to take it anymore." Sherlock didn't understand. "I hate relying on a substance. I always have done. I just want to do this by myself." He sighed, and picked Hamish up, hugging him. "Oh, this reminds me. I have your scarf, I'll give you it later." Sherlock smiled at him, halfheartedly, like he knew that John was hugging Hamish as a substitute for him.

"You should come off it slowly. Not all at once. You forget, I've been there." There was something almost bitter in Sherlock's eyes, but it passed as he watched John hug Hamish. "I did get you your own stuffed animal, remember? Just…don't call it by my second name." Sherlock's nose flared. "I think, perhaps, we should attend to your sister." He stood up, but quickly fell right back down, dizzy. "I'm fine," he said, waving off John's hand. "Bit of a high, that's all. I am on a controlled substance, remember? Only way to keep Avery completely away." He stood back up again, slowly, and returned to the living area.

"Harry, I want you to go." She frowned at him. "Don't come round here again. I know what you think of me, and to be perfectly honest, I don't want you around as long as you think that."

Harry had left and John was sprawled over the couch. Sherlock sat in his chair, his head to one side sympathetically. "I really care about her, Sherlock. She's right about me. I have no backbone." He sniffed, his eyes welling up. "I hate this, it's awful." He wanted nothing more than Sherlock to curl up on top of him like he used to. "I just want to give you a hug, and I can't even do that."

"Why would you even think that? It's not like you deserted. You were forced home." Sherlock was puzzled. "You went into battle, not as a cold-blooded killer, but as a healer." His head was starting to clear, the high fading and leaving him neutral. He smiled. "Don't make me do something drastic to make you see sense. You're the bravest person I've ever met. You're courting me, if you need further proof of your unwavering courage." He shifted awkwardly and decided that, with the drugs in his system, at least trying a hug wouldn't hurt. His arms slowly wrapped around John, and he put his hands through John's hair. There was a tickle of urge to yank it in the back of his mind, but not too much that he couldn't ignore it.

John fell back onto the couch purposefully, still hugging him. Sherlock curled up on top of him, trying to make as little bodily contact as possible. "Thank you." John smiled. He put Harry Potter on the film channel, because Sherlock hadn't finished watching it. "We didn't go to dinner last night, do you want to go tonight?" He lightly brushed his hands over his hair. "I want to take you somewhere nice, my favorite place, in fact. We've never been for some reason."

"Mm. Yes. Should warn you, though, decreased appetite is one of the side effects of what I'm taking so we may have to bring the leftovers back." Sherlock was tense, physically, as they finished the film. Sherlock noted he didn't enjoy it as much as he had when he didn't have foreign chemicals in his system, though he still pretended for John's sake. "I do have a potentially uncomfortable question for you, and I'll only ask if it's fine with you."

"Oh well, you can choose something small." He smiled. He was still quite upset about Harry, so the smiled was rather forced. He sighed. "Sorry if I seem off, I'm still upset about that sister of mine. She's put me down my whole life. Anyway, never mind that. What did you want to ask me?"

Sherlock studied John's face, wondering if now was the best time to ask. "I don't want you to misunderstand my question. Know that I'm grateful for everything you've ever done for me. I'm just not entirely certain you thought things through properly before volunteering to help in my self-exploratory experiment." He saw the puzzlement in John's eyes and decided to stop dancing around the issue. "Why would an otherwise-sensible man consent to have same-sex intercourse with a college dropout with a known history of mental issues, reckless behaviour, and drug abuse? You'll never be able to donate blood again, and it would put any future partners at risk. Not precisely the most intelligent thing you've ever done."

John squirmed. "Because I love you, haven't we been over this? I've risked my life for you before, this isn't different." Sherlock was frowning, this was utterly foreign to him. "Okay, look. I've risked my life more times than I care to imagine, before I met you, I was doing it because I couldn't be bothered living. But then, I met you, and I knew I finally had a reason for doing it. You're the only person who I've actually loved. I mean, I thought I'd loved when I was younger, but none of it compares to what I feel for you." He coughed, to cover the awkward silence. "The point is, I'm willing to take any risk for you. I never donated blood in the first place, and.. well, if this doesn't work out, then I think I'll go it alone from now on." He looked down at his hands, and then back up to Sherlock's face. "I don't think I could move on."

"Love does not require sex. You could have thought it through and said no. I would have been content with your answer." Now it was Sherlock's turn to fidget. "Admittedly, it's too late to consider the consequenses now." He felt uncomfortable at John's open admission of love, knowing he couldn't reciprocate. "Well," he finally said. "I'm glad to have given you purpose." He cleared his throat and stood. "I'll…just go get ready for dinner." He smiled slightly and stood to go to his room, adding a small leather satchel to his pockets—his "medicine"—and returned to the living room, waiting for John to get ready.

When Sherlock came out, John stopped him. "What medication are you taking, by the way? I need to know, you know, in case you take a turn to it." He smiled up, it seemed an innocent enough question. Sherlock stood completely still. "What's up?" John frowned. Sherlock still didn't answer him, instead, he nudged his tie into place. "Sherlock, what have you done?" John was suddenly standing up, as close as he could be to Sherlock without being physical. "Explain."

"I…don't like having something that…personal exposed. Not to anyone. You know that." Sherlock forced himself to meet John's gaze. "It…it bothers me to have to rely on any sort of chemical to keep my hallucinations of Avery from coming back. Why do you think I insist on taking it in private? It hurts me, emotionally, to admit that I need something other than my own mind." His mouth twitched into a hint of a smile. "Besides, I'm fine. I can think. I'm not controlled by my tempestuous emotions. I'm more stable than I have been for months." He smiled reassuringly. "If I start to have an addiction problem, I'll let you know. As it is, the only thing I might be having a problem with is the sleeping pills. But I'd rather be on them than hear your screams of pain in my head as I'm trying to sleep."

"Take half the dose of the sleeping pills then, I don't want any risks." He smiled. "I'm going to get ready." He went into his room and did so.

When he came out, Sherlock was looking out of the window, sighing. "Whats up with you?" John said from behind him, making him jump. "Whatever it is, don't over think it, okay? We're going to have a nice night, lets forget about what happened, please?" He smiled up at him. "Your tie's wonky, here." John fixed it and pulled it up, causing Sherlock to shiver. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes. Fine." Sherlock seemed quite troubled. "Just thinking about what we were discussing the other day, how the human mind blocks out traumatic memories. Wondering if…if you've re-blocked out what happened with Moriarty. Or me." Sherlock blinked and good-humouredly changed topic. "And wondering why the hell I'm wearing a tie. I never wear ties." He had his joking face on, which was a plain indicator he wanted to talk about something else. "So. This restaurant. What is it? Italian? French? Greek? Seafood?"

"A bit of everything… but the thing is, my mother owns it." He looked down. "If you still want to go after that little fact, well done." He laughed. "She saved up for her own business since she was 14 years old, and it's paid off." Sherlock raised his eyebrow in surprise. "She's not seen me for about 9 years, I think it's about time I said hello to her. Do you want to go?" He felt a slight blush coming on, and he looked back down at his shoes to hide his face.

"We've been together for nearly four years now, admittedly, for three of them, you thought I was dead. I was wondering when I'd be meeting your parents." Sherlock thought of his own and sighed. "Nine years. I haven't seen my mother in…fourteen. Haven't seen Father in sixteen. Doubt he'd want to see me." He sighed bitterly. "And another thing—we shouldn't talk about our private lives, at least not about the difficulties we've been having lately. Wouldn't want her or anyone else to get the wrong idea. The tabloids are after me enough. Frightening clients away."

"She doesn't know we're together, in fact, she probably still thinks I'm in the army. I want to go and tell her whats been happening, aside from the personal things. Would you mind if I tell her that we're together?" This was rather embarrassing, for some reason. "It'd mean a lot to me, Sherlock." He tried to force a smile without blushing. "You won't meet my dad, unless you're dying to, which I'm guessing you're not."

Sherlock handed John the phone to call the cab. "Better her find out from you than from the tabloids. After all, one of them mentioned you by name, attached to 'associate-turned-lover'. Second-hand sources are never reliable, particularly when it comes to details." His left index finger twitched—he was impatient and ready to leave.

When they arrived at the restaurant, John paced up and down outside, nervously. "God I don't know what to say. She doesn't know anything. God." Sherlock patted his shoulder, trying to comfort him. "Right. Now or never, right?" They walked into the grand double doors, into a reception. The man at the desk immediately smiled at John. "Johnny! It's been, what, almost ten years! I'm so pleased to see you! How is the army going? Never mind, come and see your mum!" He grabbed his arm and pulled him through more doors, Sherlock walking behind. They arrived at yet another door, in which the man swiped his card into it and took them in. "Lenora, somebody's here to see you." She emerged from behind a bookcase in the room. "Johnny? Is that my Johnny? Oh, I've missed you!" She came over and cupped his face kissing him all over it. "Nearly ten years! I'm not happy about that! How is the army?" John looked down. "They sent me home. I got shot." She gasped, and hugged him. "Oh my dear, you never told me! Never mind, eh? You still have your doctoring job. Who is this, then?" She smiled at Sherlock. She was remarkably smaller than John, but she had the same eyes and smile. Sherlock introduced himself, shaking her hand. "This is my boyfriend, mum." John stood straight, very soldier like, and nodded.

Sherlock took note of her grip—firm, but not too commanding. "Yes. John and I have been courting for nearly four years." He took in all the details about her. _ Divorced. Dating. Same man for the last six months. Borderline diabetic—unaware of it. Cat. Needs new mattress. Business booming. Relatively happy. _"It's an honor to meet you at last. I'm sure he's inherited most of his pleasurable traits from your side of the family." He smiled his most charming grin just as his stomach rumbled. "I suppose I was more hungry than I thought. Shall we?"

They were sat down at the best table in the restaurant; usually reserved for the rich or famous. "That went so much better than I expected." He muttered over the table. "My dad wouldn't of accepted that at all, any of it. The army, a boyfriend, not one bit. I'm glad mum's left him now." Sherlock smiled at him. "You don't want to meet him, do you?" John winced. "I mean.. he's been trying to get in contact with me for a while, but I've told Harry to make excuses for me. To be quite honest, I haven't seen him for 9 years either. I'm scared to talk to him, he'd probably try and hit me for having a boyfriend." He sipped his drink, "Not that he'd succeed, but even so." John looked around and saw the man from before winking at him with a thumbs up. "You know him?" He nodded towards him, "He's my uncle James. He's like the father I always wanted." He waved back, with a smile. "You've not told me much about your dad, Sherlock. Why don't you mention him much?"

Sherlock's face froze into what was obviously intended to be a retraction of all emotion at the mention of his father. Despite that, there was boiling resentment in his eyes. "Father was emotionally abusive toward me. He frequently made it quite plain that Mycroft was the favourite. To him, Mycroft was perfect." He lifted his glass of water to take a sip (because even if he had felt like a drink, on his medication he knew he shouldn't) and it was plain his hand was shaking. "Twice, he was physically abusive." He swallowed as if to bury his anger. "When I was eight, when mother left and we thought we'd never see her again, I told him off for it—if he hadn't cheated on her, she wouldn't be leaving. He hit me. Mycroft stepped in to prevent it going further. Then he hit me again when Mycroft brought me back from Europe. Because I was…" His voice trailed off and when he spoke again, his voice betrayed the fact that he was trying not to cry. "Because I was the no-good son with no friends or romantic attachments who ran away from home and came back a year later a drug addict with a criminal record." He took a sharp deep breath and it levelled his voice. "So you can see why I haven't spoken to him since I left for university. Particularly as I left early." His eyes roamed the room. "Let's talk about something more pleasant, shall we? The couple at the table behind you isn't really a couple. They're press spies."

"Right, okay. I don't know what to talk about if they're listening. Oh wait, right, stay there." John walked over to his uncle James. "Uncle James, the people behind us are press spies, and they're rather set on getting stuff out of Sherlock, could you..?" James nodded at him with a wink, and he walked over to them. John returned to his seat with a smile as James escorted the spies out. "So, where were we? Yeah. Cheerier subjects. Okay then, tell me, what do you think of my family?" He rolled his eyes slightly, "Not the best of families, but a family all the same."

"Makes for an interesting study." Sherlock had calmed down a bit. "The daughter takes after the father, the son after the mother, both aesthetically and mentally. Curious the way these things work." He seemed distant, thoughtful. His left arm twitched—it was approaching time for his medicine, but he could wait another few moments before retreating to the toilet. "As a matter of curiosity, how did you get your name? Why John Hamish?"

"My grandfather was called Hamish, and I've no idea where the John came from. I wasn't close to him; he couldn't stand my father so we didn't see him often. What about your name? Yours and Mycroft's? They're unique, they must have come from somewhere?" He grinned at him, he was much happier than he had been in the previous week. Sherlock's arm was twitching. "In fact, before you answer that, go and take your medication." He nodded towards the toilets with a sympathetic smile.

"Good idea. Wouldn't want Avery to butt in." Sherlock rose and headed to the toilets, leaving John sitting awkwardly by himself. They hadn't even ordered their food yet.

Five minutes later, Sherlock returned, his pupils extremely wide as they always were post-dosing. A paparazzi came out of nowhere and snapped a picture, after which Sherlock staggered into a table, temporarily blinded—the flash was too bright and his eyes let too much light in. He blinked furiously for another few moments before making his way back to his seat.

"Wretched photographers," he muttered. He cracked a drug-addled smile, and spoke while looking through his menu. "Oh, yes, names. My great-grandfather's name was Sherlock. My father's father's father. He was a detective as well. In many ways I take after him. Not so much physically as intellectually. Mycroft was for my father's mother's father. Edmund was my mother's father's father's name. Then they stopped with the distant ancestors and for my middle name, gave me my father's first name. Avery." Sherlock's nose twitched.

Uncle James reapproached and personally took their orders. Sherlock ordered a seafood pasta in champagne cream sauce, John took a chicken parmesean. They sat and waited, Sherlock's pupils wide as saucers but constantly watching John's every little habit while they waited for their food. "Your turn to think of a topic of discussion."

"What exactly are you taking?" John whispered over the table. "Your eyes look like you've taken acid." He called James over and asked for another glass of water. "Here, have that." He passed it to him. "You've been changing the subject every time I ask. Is it lithium or something? I'm bloody worried!" Sherlock sipped his drink slowly, so he didn't have to answer. "Sherlock, I swear to god, you better tell me now."

"It's being used experimentally to treat persistent hallucinations. Doubt you'd recognize it by the chemical name. Benzoylmethylecgonine, if you insist." Sherlock said it matter-of-factly. "Besides, look at me, I'm fine. If the drug was causing adverse effects, we'd know by now. I haven't seen Avery—not even heard a whisper—since I started taking it. I can think clearly. I'd say that's far better than me being a hallucinating emotional wreck, wouldn't you? Yes, I'm a bit high just after taking it, but that's only to be expected from such a strong stimulant. I haven't felt this normal—normal for me—since before the failed hypnotism." Just then, their food arrived. "That was quick. I expect your mother made it personally." He stabbed a clam with a fork and chewed it slowly, the drugs heightening his sense of taste so he enjoyed it more than he would have. "Besides, if we're going to go after one another for medicines, I shouldn't have to remind you that you've been off yours for two days now, against psychiatrist orders. You shouldn't have come off it cold-turkey. If you insist on coming off it, you should reduce the dosage in small increments." He twirled his pasta on his fork and stuffed a rather large bite into his mouth. "This is delicious."

"I'm a doctor, I know what I'm doing. If anything else happens whilst you're on these, I'm telling Hussey to stop prescribing them, okay?" Sherlock grimaced at him, mouth full. "Anyway, when we go home, do you want to watch my box set of 'The young ones'? It's one of my favorites, and I want to lie on the couch like we did before, if you don't mind.." Sherlock nodded, his mouth still full of food, he was devouring it like he had another three coming and only 5 minutes to finish each of them. "Enjoying yourself?" John had barely started, and Sherlock's plate was almost empty.

"Anything else? That would imply something's happened while I'm on them to begin with." Sherlock took another bite. "What is 'The Young Ones', anyway? That one of your sappy films?" He finished the last of his pasta. "Absolutely delicious. I haven't eaten substantially since France. Didn't realize I was that hungry." The high was wearing off now and his pupils were contracting. He took a deep breath. "Is her cooking as good as you remembered?"

"Your eyes have gone mental, so yeah. The young ones is a series from the 80s or 90s, I used to watch it all the time." He watched Sherlock eating the last scraps of his meal. "It's much better. She used to cook whatever dad wanted, and me and Harry didn't like it. He used to eat stuff like haggis. Bloody disgusting, I can tell you that." John sighed. "I hate that man." He tucked into his food again, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. "I guess we both have daddy issues, huh?" He forced a smile.

"I don't think I've ever eaten haggis." Sherlock tilted his head in thought. "Sounds peculiar." He watched John eat his chicken parmesean, occasionally nibbling on the endless breadsticks. "The closest I've ever had to a father figure is Mycroft." He frowned. "But don't let's talk about that." He watched the way John ate, the way he held his fork and knife, the way he lifted his glass. "We're so different, you and I. Different backgrounds, but oddly parallel. Even in the way we ran away from home. You ran toward discipline. I ran to anarchy. Yet here we sit."

"Some would call it fate, but personally, I call it a happy coincidence." A smile toyed at the edges of his mouth. "A very happy one, with the occasional problem, but worthwhile." James came over to the table and whispered into John's ear. "You better make yourself somewhat scarce, your mother has called your dad, she thinks it's only right that you see him too, he's on his way." He moved away from the table. "We have to go." John swallowed. "Now." He stood up and went towards the door before Sherlock stopped him.

However, Sherlock had no intention of stopping him. If it made John uncomfortable to see his father, Sherlock had no plans to force it on him. He stood, made a slightly uncharacteristic motion of gratitude towards John's uncle, and ran after John to the cab. "Ah, what a night. It's nice to see you happy and unmedicated. A most welcome change." He laughed. "You and I, John. What strange folk we are. A drug-addled sociopath and an adrenaline junkie ex-soldier." He didn't mind that what he was saying seemed strange—he was riding the high of the drugs and the hilarity of the thought of two grown men, running from their parents. "Hiding from the past but not prepared for the future." He let out another hearty laugh and just as they pulled up to Baker Street, he realized something. "We never paid for our food!"

"My mum never lets me pay for food, she insists on it being free. God, why did she have to call my dad?" They walked up the stairs to the flat. "I'm going to get changed," he yawned. When he returned from his room, he was wearing his pajamas. "Hmf. I don't know nor do I care about what time it is." He hissed at Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch. John put the first of his 'The Young Ones' DVD's on, and sat next to him. "Are you still feeling high?" He asked, as Sherlock was swaying on the couch.

"Coming down now," Sherlock said. "Funny, when I came out of rehab, I never thought I'd be high again, and yet, here I am. I'd forgotten how enjoyable it was. But it's not recreational, so it's a bit different." He was worrying about that paparazzi shot they'd taken of him leaving the toilet. He knew they'd twist it, distort it to vilify him just for the fun of it.

He watched John's DVD with a carefully-restrained disgust. He'd have been more vocal about his opinions, but he kept it to himself out of respect for John. He managed to suffer through the whole disc of six episodes before he couldn't take it any longer and stood up. "I'm getting some water." He stomped off to the kitchen and got himself some before returning. "Three hours before I can take a slee—" He caught John's look. "—half a sleeping pill." He was anxious, restless. "Anything you want to do? That doesn't involve '80s sitcoms? I've developed a deep-seated aversion to the music of the '80s, for the same reason I don't like you wearing your parka."

"You should have said," John mumbled. "You choose something." He tried to smile, but he'd guessed that whatever it was that Sherlock chose, would not include him. Sherlock sat on the couch next to him, weighing out his options. "Seriously, anything." John leaned back onto the cushions behind him, bored out of his mind. "I'm bored. Don't laugh." He tutted at Sherlock as he laughed at him.

"Um." Sherlock sat awkwardly. He didn't want to make John feel unwanted, but at the same time, couldn't think of anything. He put his hands to his head as he did when frustrated. "We could attempt to play one another's musical instruments for a while, I suppose. Or we could…just talk. About lighter things. Another honesty hour? I haven't a clue."

"Can I try something?" John said with a small smile. Sherlock nodded, with the condition that he remembered about his medication. John leaned over and brushed his lips over Sherlock's, and then he moved back to where he was sitting. "We could bake a cake again? That was fun." He smiled at the memory of the messy icing all over the kitchen. "Or we could go and see if Mrs Hudson is okay, we don't do that often."

"Mm." Sherlock was deep in thought. He'd felt nothing at John's kiss. Not emotionally at any rate, and he wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. "Yes, we don't really spend much time with her, do we?" He picked up his coat and headed downstairs, where he knocked on her door. "Mrs. Hudson," he said smoothly. "Thought we'd pop around for tea. Since we haven't spoken since we left for France."

He frowned as he saw the tabloid on her dining table. "Don't believe the papers, Mrs. Hudson. Particularly not those."

"Oh, don't worry, Sherlock, I wasn't reading the article about you." She started up the kettle. "As a matter of fact, I was just about to visit you."

Sherlock smiled warmly as he sat on her sofa. He felt at home in her flat, like visiting your fondly-remembered mother. He sighed happily.

John was in the kitchen whilst Sherlock sat on the sofa in the living room. "So, you got attacked by an animal, John?" He coughed and looked into the living room. "Yeah, god knows what animal, I can't remember much. People are blaming him, but he had nothing to do with it." Mrs Hudson nodded and poured the tea out.

"Are you and him.. Okay?" She ushered, concerned. "I mean, you boys don't seem the same as you used to."

"Yeah, just a problematic relationship, that's all." He helped her take the tea in to the living room, and they sat down on the sofa.

"So boys, apart from the accident, did you have a nice holiday?" Sherlock went on to explain how much he'd enjoyed it, and John stayed silent.

After the hour or so long visit, they returned to the flat. John decided he was going to go to his room without a word.

Sherlock sighed. Something was troubling John. He decided to ask about it, and followed John to his room, half a sleeping pill in hand. His other medication was wearing off completely and he was starting to get antsy—the sleeping pill would help with that.

"Did you mean what you said? That you couldn't remember it?" He swallowed the pill, sitting at the foot of the bed. He wanted desperately for John to have repressed the memory of what he'd done. He didn't want anyone but himself to be plagued with that memory.

"Yeah, of course I can't remember it." He forced a smile, pretty sure that Sherlock knew he was lying. John felt pretty down, the voice hadn't returned though, so he was sure that it was worth it. He sighed and flopped onto the bed. "I'm not getting out of bed tomorrow." He pulled the covers over his face. "There's no point really." He moved over to near the wall, so there was a space in case Sherlock decided to go against Hussey's order and join him.

"Don't do that, John. Don't lie. The fact that you think you could even get away with it insults me." Sherlock realized it'd come out a bit more harshly than he'd intended. "I'm…sorry. I just hate to see you down like this." He sighed sadly. "But if that's what you want, I'll respect your wishes." He paused for a few seconds, not sure if he should do what he was thinking, but eventually reached down and gently kissed John on the head. "Goodnight, John. Thank you for being so strong." He walked back to his own room and quickly fell asleep.

It wasn't a peaceful sleep. He should have taken a whole sleeping pill. His mind was replaying John's near-death in France over and over. Then his nightmare started to escalate. Sometimes it ended in John leaving. Sometimes the hospital staff had to tell Sherlock that John was dead. Sometimes he never made it out of the barn before John's life had completely oozed out of him.

Every time the vision rewound, repeating with more violence, Sherlock would call for John in his sleep. Gently at first, but eventually a near-scream of panic as in his dreams, he was quite literally a demon, ripping the heart out of John and devouring it whole.

And because of the half-sleeping pill, he couldn't wake himself up.

John had just dropped off to sleep when he heard a roar from the next room, and then a scream of his name. He jumped up and went to his door. "Sherlock?" He knocked loudly. There was nothing but shouts from the room. He pushed open the door, to find Sherlock had fallen off the bed, and he was writhing on the floor. "Sherlock, wake up." He was trying to shake him, but nothing happened. "Sherlock, wake up!" He was shouting at him now, trying his best to wake him. "I'm ringing an ambulance."

Just in time to actually keep John from dialing, Sherlock awoke with a gasp. The first thing he did when he awoke was grabbed onto John in a desperate hug, muttering "You're alive. Thank God you're alive." He was sniffing, on the verge of tears. "Nightmare," he choked out. "Remind me never to only take half a sleeping pill again." He let go of John, making sure he had enough room to breathe—the hug had been an extremely tight one. He blurrily registered hearing that John was going to make some tea, and the instant John left, Sherlock whipped out his "medicine" and took it.

John could hear a faint moan of pleasure and relief the instant he'd left the room—the instant Sherlock took his meds. A few moments later, just as the water started boiling, there was a loud thump that sounded like someone falling to the floor. Sherlock lay in the hallway, a slight nosebleed, and racing heart. "Sorry. Fine. I just need to…to lay here for a bit. Increased blood pressure and pulse. Known side effects. Shouldn't have taken it when the sleeping pill was unmetabolized. I'll be fine." He was staring at the ceiling, flushed, pupils dilated, head spinning and body confused as to what to do with both a stimulant and relaxant simultaneously.

"Come on," John pulled him up to his feet. "This medication is far stronger than I first thought, come on, living room." He helped him walk to the couch, and then he went into the kitchen to get him orange juice. "Drink this." He went and got a blanket from his room, and Hamish. "I'm staying up to monitor you, you're not having any more sleeping pills tonight, and I need to make sure you're okay, for my own piece of mind. He pulled the blanket over them. "What do you want to watch?"

Sherlock's head lay on John's shoulder. He was feeling really quite ill, not to mention unpleasantly high. "Right now, I'm okay with watching you. At least until the sparkles fade." His head hurt from the increase in blood pressure, and he'd clamped a tissue to his nose to help absorb the bleeding. His stomach was churning as well. "I'll be fine," he mumbled and shut his eyes hard. "I've never been badly high like this. Never. It'll pass. It has to pass." He groaned slightly as if feverish.

They sat like that for about an hour, until Sherlock whispered "I'm better now. I think I want to watch a film. Something calming. Something without violence or sex. Nightmares, you remember."

John brushed his hand through Sherlock's hair. "Okay, not Pirates of the Caribbean then." He stood up and went over to the cabinet with his DVDs in. "Hm, let me see.. How about a Tim Burton film? Usually dark, but not overly violent; he usually makes them for children." Sherlock nodded, and John settled on 'The Nightmare Before Christmas'. He got back under the blanket with him and Sherlock put his head back on his shoulder.

Sherlock watched with fascination. He'd never seen it before, and he was still a bit high, so things were distorted slightly. He tensed up when the Boogeyman was intimidating Santa, but other than that, he had very little physical reaction at all. When the credits were rolling, Sherlock mumble-hummed along, having picked up the tunes and stored them in his head. He smiled weakly, and when the credits finished, John noticed Sherlock was snoring softly, with his mouth open and drooling a tiny amount.

John wiped the drool off his mouth and pulled the blanket over him so he'd stay warm. His head was still on his shoulder, and he softly nuzzled into him to get comfortable. John stayed awake to watch him, all the while, stroking his hair. He'd not been this close to him since France. "I love you." He whispered, trying his best not to wake him. Sherlock was sleeping peacefully, for the first time in weeks.

The combination of the two drugs was keeping Sherlock from dreaming. It allowed him to get some rest for the next four hours, at least, until the sleeping medicine wore off and he opened his eyes with a "Didjousaysomming?" He blinked sleepily.

_Time to wake up._

"Um. I have to…" He stood up and sleepily staggered back to his bedroom. "Voice," he mumbled as he shut the door behind him. John could hear another sigh of relief/pleasure from behind the door and the sound of Sherlock shutting a drawer.

When he emerged a few moments later, he seemed wide-awake. "Much better. Was hearing Avery. That's one way to know when it's time for the next dose." He blinked rapidly and squinted—the light coming in the window was now too bright for his dilated eyes. "No, no, you stay there," he said as John got up. "My turn to try to make breakfast."

Sherlock pranced (!) into the kitchen, obviously high, but in a pleasant way, and began making spinach and mushroom omeletes, actually singing some of the music from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. He finished and delivered it to John. Sherlock had written on it with ketchup, just the single word "Thanks", which admittedly looked like it had been written by a child as the ks was rather squashed against the edge. Sherlock beamed, his pupils making his eyes look black instead of the strange silvery blue/green. "Tuck in," he said and began devouring his own.

"Thank you," John smiled. Sherlock usually never made breakfast. It was delicious. "This is great." He congratulated, with a nod. "I've decided, contrariwise to what I said last night, I think I might go out. So, do you want to go to the park?" Sherlock nodded, his mouth full of food; he'd been eating more than usual since he started the medication. "Are you ready to go out to the park? I mean, last time you freaked out."

"Last time," he pointed out, "I'd just come back from complicated neurosurgery and hadn't regained my sensory regulation yet." Sherlock waved his fork. "Besides, I was fine in Marseilles." He frowned. "Well, fine in the sensory overload department, anyway." He sipped his juice. "Life is so much happier when you're high." Sherlock laughed a little when he saw John's face. "Don't worry, I'm following the directions. I'm not likely to abuse it." His face fell slightly as if at a hidden thought. "So, the park." He leapt up to go get ready, and when he came out of his room, he was wearing his white shirt with his suit and sat in his chair, waiting for John to get ready.

"Did Hussey say how long you're going to be on this medication?" John raised an eyebrow. "Anyway, when you've finished breakfast, I'm going to call a couples therapist. We need one, you can't deny that." Sherlock sipped on his juice, quietly thinking. "Are you okay with going? I think it'll help our relationship, we need help with it." Sherlock nodded, but stayed quiet. "What are you thinking about?"

Sherlock had very carefully non-reacted when John inquired about Hussey. "Hussey didn't prescribe it. Special study." He twitched his mouth—his awkward smile. "I'm tolerant of couples' therapy for us. But I see Hussey on Thursdays, and you hadn't told me when you were going back to Thompson." He sipped the last of his orange juice, thinking hard about some things he didn't want to tell John. He looked up, his passive scientist face on. "I'm waiting for you before we go to the park. I'm dressed and ready, remember?"

"There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" John frowned at him. "I'm not as smart as you by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm not stupid." He sipped at his coffee, and looked at him with a very unimpressed expression. "Go on." He moved his arms in a wild fashion. Sherlock got up and poured himself more juice in silence. "Sherlock, tell me." John muttered, angrily.

"There are loads of things I'm not telling you." Sherlock blinked. "That wasn't what I meant." He stood up in preparation to go to the park, physically insisting that they do so. "The nightmares. I think I need to take a whole sleeping pill. I know you don't want me to. I know you think I'll become dependent on it, but…my mind replayed what happened in France in the barn. At first. Then it got worse. Escalated. What if we got to the hospital and they couldn't save you? What if we didn't make it to the ambulance before you died? What if we hadn't even made it out of the barn? What if I'd ignored you completely? What if I ripped—" He ran his hand over his mouth. "Sorry. I can't. And I'm trying really hard not to go take another dose of my medicine, which I'm meant to take if I'm feeling panicky. Which I am. But—" He was distraught and doing his best to hide it.

Sherlock nodded. "Let's get fresh air. That'll help. You can phone the therapist later, surely."

"No, I'm calling one now. The sooner the better." He got up and stomped into his room, muttering as he went.

When he returned, Sherlock was playing his violin in a wild and manic fashion. "Come on, Sherlock, we're going to the park now." He turned round, his eyes rolling around in their sockets, a crazed look upon his face. "Sit down." John gulped, pushing him onto the couch. He was laughing like a child, who doesn't know what's going on. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He was waving his hand in front of his face, but he was just laughing. "Sherlock!"

"Drugs on top of drugs, John!" Sherlock's mind was spinning, higher than he'd ever been. "Took another dose and now I'm _flying_. It's magnificent!" John couldn't really even see Sherlock's irises now. He looked like he'd had his eyes dilated by an optometrist. John took his pulse and it was well into the 140s. "So much like the first time," Sherlock said, happily. "So much like Natalia…" It was strange to see Sherlock like this. It almost wasn't Sherlock at all. And yet it was. Grinning wildly, he flopped backwards onto the couch and watched the ceiling. "It's good to be back." His giggling fit calmed down after five minutes, though he was still high as a kite.

Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up the stairs. "I'm sorry, the doorbell must not be working."

Sherlock sat up and danced to his chair suppressing another laughing fit. The door opened and a man of about seventy came in. He didn't even see John as he made his way to Sherlock, who'd been pretending to read.

"Sherlock," said the man. "I'm sorry it's been so long. There's someth—" He stopped speaking as Sherlock looked up and they locked eyes. Sherlock instantly straightened up, defensively. There was obviously some history between them. The stranger's eyes looked Sherlock up and down before unexpectedly hitting him backhandedly, any gentleman's demeanor vanishing in an instant. "Mycroft said you were clean! He said you'd been off the drugs for years!"

Sherlock sat, seemingly unaffected by this sudden assault, and when he spoke it was with his usual calm. "John. This is my father."

"He is clean, this is prescribed, honestly." John was sobbing into the sleeve of his jumper. "I'm John, this is really a bad time, I'm not sure what to do, he's taken too much." Sherlock started laughing again, and he flopped down onto the couch. Sherlock's father went into the kitchen behind John, demanding answers. John decided it was best for him to leave out the boyfriend part, and make something up. "I'm his flatmate, we've been living together for about a year or so. I'm also a doctor, and he's been prescribed the medication by his own doctor, for slight hallucinations." His father went on to blame him for not keeping the medication away from a well-known drug user. "How can this possibly be my fault? He's a _grown man_!" His father went into the living room to scream at Sherlock again.

It wasn't hard for John to hear their conversation. Mrs. Hudson stood in the kitchen behind John, wide-eyed.

"All these years, yet here you sit. No steady job, no self-respect, a bloody needle in your arm half the time, and no friends. You're as useless as you've always been."

"You obviously don't read the papers."

"Of course I do. 'Sherlock Holmes, Man or Monster?' I don't give a damn about your sexual habits, but according to this, you nearly killed him."

"Tabloids frequently—"

There was the sound of a minor scuffle. "I came here to apologize. If you don't even have the sense to talk to me like a decent person—"

"What do you want from me? An apology for being a bad son? I'm not going to be Mycroft just to please you."

"Three years we thought you were dead! You didn't even let us know! We thought you'd killed yourself!"

"I'm surprised you even noticed." There was the sound of another slap.

"Don't you think for one instant I didn't notice. How could I avoid it? Newspapers and television coming after me every day, asking how I was coping with my son's suicide."

"And how did you cope, precisely?" Silence. "Just as I thought. You didn't care. Mother cared. You never did." Sherlock's voice was icy. "I guess I get that from you."

There was a longer, more dangerous silence. "Give my regards to Grand-mère," was Sherlock's eventual reply.

"She's dead."

"I know."

"I'm dying."

"I know."

"Six months."

"Good bye." There was the discordant sound of a violin being smashed and Sherlock's groan of pain.

"You will treat me with respect."

"Oh, because you always treated me like a child shoul—unghnnn…" The splatter of light vomit on wood caused Mrs. Hudson to wince.

"I should have known better than to say goodbye to you. You're too high to care. Don't pretend you're not. You know I can tell the difference between self-administration and prescription. I thought you'd changed. I thought you'd become something. Guess I was wrong." Sherlock's father slammed the door shut behind him as he left 221B, leaving Sherlock on his hands and knees, covered in splinters and violin strings, leaning over a small pile of vomit he was doing his best not to add to.

"Wait here." John muttered, and stomped out of the door. Mrs Hudson and Sherlock looked out onto the street to witness John Watson knocking Mr Holmes out. "…and for the record, he owes you no respect, you arse!" He stomped back to the house to help Sherlock up. "Come on, love. Mrs Hudson, I'll come and help you clean that up."

She shook her head, "No dear, I'll do it, you look after him." John thanked her and carried Sherlock up the stairs over his shoulder.

He took him into his own bedroom, and cleaned him up. "I'm going to buy you a new violin." He muttered, angrily. "And so help me god, he needed more than knocking out." When Sherlock was in his pajamas, he lolled back onto the bed. "Come on, get comfortable." He pulled the blanket over him, after putting him in the recovery position. "You're silly, dear." He hushed him, because he was wailing in pain.

Sherlock moaned weakly, dazed from the violin striking him on the back and from the high that was starting to fade. "Shouldn't have done that. He'll be after you for assault." He blinked slowly and retched. "Looks like he and I…never reconcile our differ…differences."

Sure enough, not ten more minutes passed before DI Dimmock arrived at 221B. "I'm to arrest you for assault," John feigned puzzlement, so Dimmock continued. "You hit an elderly man in broad daylight in the middle of the street, knocking him out," he said to John as if it were the most obvious thing in the world before turning to Sherlock. "And to arrest you for possession and use of illegal substances." Sherlock tried to sit up without being ill, but he could barely sit up at all. "In fact, right now, I'm going to have to ask you to roll up your left sleeve as proof."

Sherlock hesitated, but eventually did. There on his arm were no fewer than twenty needle-marks, plainly from within the last week alone.

"N-number one, look at his face and our flat. That man came in and I defended him. Number two, where is your proof that the substance is illegal? As far as I've been told it's comp-" Sherlock stopped him and stood up. "Sherlock sit down! You've done nothing wrong, nor have I. Dimmock, follow me." Dimmock sighed and did so, clearly not wanting to arrest either of them because of respect. "He's smashed his violin, he's hit him in the face repeatedly, and let me guess, _he _told you to come here?" John was screaming now, red in the face.

_Ah, John, ever-loyal. _"The man you spoke to was my father. He and I have never exactly been on the same side of things." Sherlock's eyes weren't focussing correctly. His irises had only just started to be decently visible again and he was still feeling weak.

"Do you have any witnesses to say you were just defending him?"

Mrs. Hudson raised her hand.

"And as for you, Mr. Holmes, we have every right to take you in on suspicion of drug use. Especially given all the evidence."

"It's for hallucinations. It's experimental. I'm fine."

Dimmock shifted uncomfortably. "As much as I hate to risk my job, Mr. Holmes, your work is important, so I'll let you off with a warning. But if I even hear a rumour that you're on something, I'll be right back here with the handcuffs. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." Sherlock fell back down onto the sofa as Dimmock and his second left. Sherlock returned to laying in the recovery position, moaning. "I think there are splinters…in my back."

"I'll check for you, turn round and unbutton your shirt." Sherlock did so, and he was right. He had blood coming out of his back and large splinters of wood sticking out. "Right, are you ready for me to pull the big one out?" John pulled his first aid kit from under the coffee table. Sherlock nodded.

When the splinters were out, Sherlock was shaking with pain. John had to put anti-bacterial solution onto his back, which made him wince. When it had stopped bleeding, John kissed each of the wounds gently before putting his shirt back on. His phone buzzed. "Hold on, Mycroft has texted me."

Received From: Mycroft Holmes

Assaulting an elderly man is no joke, Doctor Watson. You're not looking after Sherly as well as I thought. I will be having words. -Mycroft Holmes.

"Wanker." John muttered. "Sorry, your brother is blaming me. I guess this is my fault in any case." He sighed, and put his phone down. "Come on, to be quite honest, I think you need sleep. But you're not getting a sleeping pill, I'm not taking any risks. From now on, I'll keep hold of your medication, you worried me sick." He put his arm around his waist and took him into his bedroom. "Now you lie down, I'm staying here. I know Hussey said not to, but whatever. I'm keeping an eye on you." Sherlock slumped into the bed, holding onto Hamish tightly. John sat down next to him, talking to him, trying to keep him awake as long as he could, in case anything happened.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "Not even my own brother can be bothered to side with me." He tensed up at the thought of John having his "medication" but seeing as how John hadn't asked for it, he wasn't turning it over just yet.

A few hours in—to be precise, six hours after he'd last taken his most recent dose, Sherlock shut his eyes and shook his head. "The hallucinations. They're starting again. Avery—not my father Avery, but my Avery—he's threatening Father. He's screaming. Please, I need a dose." His palms were starting to sweat as well. "Will you let me take it?"

"I don't know… It's not safe for you to take anymore today, and I'm saying that as a doctor." He took Sherlock's pulse, still quite fast. "No, not until tomorrow. But I'm right here, okay? I promise I won't leave." Sherlock was begging him now. "Half a dose. Then tomorrow you can have a quarter, then after that none at all. You're becoming addicted." Sherlock was shaking his head. "Sherlock, listen to me. I'm a doctor and your boyfriend. As both, I know what's best for you. We're going back to Hussey to find something else, because whatever this is, it's not helping."

"Hussey doesn't know. Too small a test group." Sherlock sat up and made sure that he was between John and the stuff he was putting in the syringe, making sure to keep to his promise of only half a dose. He tied his arm with a rubber tourniquet and poked around for a bit, trying to find an accessible vein. When he finally found one, he slid the needle into his vein and pushed the plunger in, sighing with that strange mix of pleasure and relief, though not as great as it normally was. He stood up and threw the needle into the bin, shutting the syringe itself back into the drawer in the bedside table, and laid back into the bed, his eyes dilated, but nowhere near the usual post-dose level.

"Thank you," he muttered. "Not gone, but quieter now." His pulse had gone back up to near 100, and he smiled weakly over the bed. "It is helping. On the full dose, I don't so much as hear him, and, yes, there's a high, but fifteen minutes out of every six hours isn't bad, considering the alternatives."

"I'm worried about this, you have to understand that." He grabbed onto Sherlock's arm gently and rubbed it, as if it would make it magically better. "You might as well be on drugs again at this rate. You're using this as a crutch, it won't help you in the long term." Sherlock slid down into the covers, so only his eyes could be seen. John kissed him on the top of the head. "Go on, go asleep. I'll be here." He stroked his hair, like he used to, and Sherlock dropped off to sleep.

The last conscious thought Sherlock had was how naive John could be sometimes.

Avery sat, watching him, in his dream. "Why are you doing this to yourself? To him?"

"You're in my mind. You already know."

"I want you to confirm it."

Sherlock looked up—Avery was glowing with a strange green light. "I need to be rid of you. Of the nightmares. Of the emotions."

"You do remember what the withdrawals were like?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock moaned in his sleep as his memory plagued him with the pain of his cocaine withdrawals.

"Is it worth the addiction? Is it worth being a slave, just to be rid of a quirk of neurochemistry?"

"Yes." Sherlock's body was starting to twitch again. His half-dose had long since run out.

"At least stop lying."

"I haven't lied yet. Hardly my fault he hasn't thought to do a simple Internet search."

Avery flicked his cigarette. "If you just tell him outright, he won't be as upset as if he finds out by accident."

"I don't need or want your advice. Go away."

"There's only one way to do that, and you know what that is. Unfortunately for you, John wants to wean you off your poison."

In his dream, he was falling now, and the only thing keeping him from a deep abyss was that he'd been snagged on his arm by a fish-hook.

"Your habit. Your life."

He woke up in a cold sweat and instantly started rummaging around in the dark for his syringe and supplies before he felt John's hand on his shoulder to stop him. "I need it, John. I have to have it. Nightmares. Avery."

"You've been lying to me, and I should have known better." John muttered. "You promised me you'd never do it again, but you have. God, I'm so stupid! I trusted you, imagine that." John stood up and threw the small pouch that Sherlock had been keeping at him, and went into his room. He threw the teddy that Sherlock had gotten him off the bed and flopped back onto it, hearing Sherlock's gasp of relief from the next room. _Do you see why I told you to get away now? You know I'm right. _John winced, the voice had returned, it's venomous tone burning him. "Shut up." he whispered, holding onto his head.

Sherlock welcomed the cocaine into him and instantly he was calmer. He waited for a few moments before going to John's room. "I wouldn't have taken it if I didn't think it was necessary. You've seen the good it's doing me. I'm level, once I get past the initial high. It's working." He sat on the corner of John's bed, but John moved away. "I've been careful. I've only taken certain amounts at certain times. With the exception of the last two days, but the emotions have been too strong and I've needed it." John was dangerously silent. "I'm sorry I abused your trust. Again. I can make no further justifications. Only a plea. Forgive me."

"Do me a favor, and spare me your avalanche of bullshit." He turned to face the wall. "I can't believe you. In fact, yes I can, but I'm really disappointed. Not that it means anything to you, of course. You just abuse my trust like I'm nothing to you." He pulled his blanket over him. "Go." He wasn't sure whether he'd left or not, but he began crying anyway.

Sherlock wasn't sure how definite "go" was meant to be. Did he mean leave the bedroom? The flat? John's life? Either way, he decided perhaps it was time. And he knew it. Absence had made the heart grow fonder for the last three years, so perhaps it would cement them now.

And besides that, Sherlock was high and that's not really the time to expect someone to think rationally. So Sherlock packed a bag full of a few sets of clothes, his toothbrush, and his cocaine, got dressed, and left 221B, leaving no note of where he was headed or even an apology.

John calmed down and decided he should go and talk to Sherlock. He knocked on the door and there was no answer. "Sherlock, talk to me." Nothing. "Sherlock?" He knocked again, and then went in. Everything of importance to him was gone. "No." John croaked, memories flooding back to him from the time he was without him. "No."

SentTo:Sherlock

Come back. I didn't mean leave the flat, I meant my room. I want to talk about this. Please don't do this again. I can't do this again.

-John. x

He sat down on the floor and sobbed. Breathless and loud sobs escaped from him, his whole body felt heavy. "I'm so fucking stupid." He mumbled to himself.

**Sherlock's blog:**

Sherlock: Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.

Alone is what I've always had.

Now I have it again.

John: Stop this, please.

Sherlock: Me being alone protects you, too.

John: No, in fact, it makes me more prone to harm.

Sherlock: The only one who's hurt you has been me.

You're safer now.

John: You'll see.

Sherlock: Give it time, John. All wounds heal. Even those made worse by the premature removal of the knife.

Sherlock read John's text but couldn't bring himself to reply. He knew the cocaine was making it impossible to think clearly as he wandered the streets. He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had everything he needed to continue to be by himself, where he wouldn't hurt anyone and no one would hurt him.

He couldn't go to Mycroft. That would defeat the purpose of this. Maybe Lestrade, but not with two kilos of cocaine in his bag. Molly? Yes.

He knocked on Molly's door, but she wasn't in so he picked the lock. He was panicking again. He had reason to believe John would hurt himself. But he knew that any contact with John could cause more damage than good. He shut his eyes and took another small dose—just a squirt, just enough to steady his nerves. "Father was right," he muttered just as Molly walked in.

"Sh-sherlock! You startled me. Where's John?" She came over to him. "My God, Sherlock, are you _high_?" Her voice had risen half an octave.

"Make sure John's safe. Don't tell him I sent you. Don't tell him where I am. Please. As a favour." His vision swayed and he laid down on the sofa.

Molly gulped and nodded, and called John on her phone to pretend to have a coincidental chat.

Johns phone chimed. It was Molly.

"Before you say anything, Molly, I know you're covering for him. You did last time, why wouldn't you now? If you love him then take whatever drugs he has off him and detox him. Please." Molly said that she would, and then she put the phone down. John crawled to the bed and pulled Hamish onto the floor with him. He curled up into a ball, clutching onto the bear.

He decided to send another text.

SentTo:Sherlock

You have an hour to come home before I get my gun from my bedroom.

-John.

He'd checked his drawer before he left his room, for some reason. It was loaded, as usual, for times when he needed it. It seemed like this was one of those times.

Sherlock was so high he could barely make out the words or their meaning and once he did, he managed to get another partial squirt before Molly took his bag and actually yanked the needle from his arm. Nevertheless, he managed to send out a reply:

nmo, jphn

dn'ot thhnk aboutt it

sttop

nnneed you

cvomingg

"Mmolly," he gasped, on the verge of a dangerous overdose. "Baker street. Now. Johnnn…gun."

Molly understood. Her innocent eyes went wide with horror and she half-lifted Sherlock to the door, hailing a cab as she went. She dialled John as fast as she could. "John, I know you're having trouble, but please, we like you. You're one of my favourite people. Um, no, wait, that was, never mind. Please, just hang on for a few more minutes. Sherlock and I are on our way."

When they arrived, Sherlock half-stumbled up the stairs. It was getting harder to focus on anything, the drugs reducing his mind to one train of thought at a time—John. He could barely make it up the stairs even with Molly's help, and when he saw John in the middle of the floor, his gun in one hand and Hamish in the other, he just plain lost all sense and his nose erupted with bleeding, his eyes rolling backwards, and passing out.

"He's okay," Molly said. "Well, not okay okay, but okay enough not to call an ambulance. Are you alright?" She gently managed to take the gun away from John before embracing him. "Please be alright."

"I'm fine." John mumbled, trying to show her that he could cope on his own. "Really." He forced a smile, and went over to Sherlock who was still passed out on the floor. He put his head on his lap, and stroked his hair, crying. "I love him, Molly. It hurts." Molly put her arm around him. "He keeps hurting me, but I can't be without him." His tears fell onto Sherlock's face. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, his pupils back to normal somewhat. "Sherlock?" John murmured, running his hands down his cheek.

"You're still alive." Despite the fact that the drugs were fading, they were leaving Sherlock in a most confused state. "There was a gun, you had a gun, and Hamish and blood everywhere and unnnnnnngh." He felt like he was going to be sick and swallowed. He was, even for him, quite pale. "Don't do that again, don't think that again." He tried to raise his hand to John's head but was too weak. "I can't handle it. You've almost died four times in the past two months, and they've all been my fault in one way or another. How do I stop killing you? Oh, hello, Molly," he said with a mild look of embarrassment. "Have you come to see the show? The marvelous emotional trainwreck in 221B!" It was obvious that Sherlock was a little delirious. He swallowed again to keep from vomiting, and instead ended up shaking slightly.

"You need to get off the drug, Sherlock. If you still want me around then you have to. Even though, we know I'll stay either way." He sighed, with a relieved smile. "Don't do that again, okay? You scared me." He stroked his hair again, trying to comfort him. "Here." He put Hamish in his arms, to calm him down. "Do you need to be sick?" He frowned, slightly.

"I'm trying." Sherlock swallowed again. "Trying not to." He glanced at Molly but decided to continue his train of thought anyway. "It's the only thing keeping Avery away. And you saw, I'm not too bad off, if I regulate." He knew he sounded like any other junkie. "In fact, I'm better than I was. I was a mess in France. I was a mess before France. Except for today, yes, but you were there, you saw what my father's like." He smiled weakly. "If it helps, you can mix the solutions. So you know I'm following the regimen." It was a long shot and he knew it. He pleaded with his eyes for John to see what he saw as logic.

"No, Sherlock. I don't want you to take it at all. We'll find something else, please." Sherlock was protesting, trying to defend himself. "Do you care about me?" John said, flatly. "Because, I know I said I'd always be here, even if you were on it, but just because I'm here doesn't mean I'll talk to you. I love you, if you cared about me at all you'd try to get off it."

"We can try. I'm trying. I'll try." Sherlock was starting to babble a little. "But Avery." His face was pained at the thought of his inner demon. "I can't. Avery is not something I want to see again." He sat up, weakly, his head spinning, and Molly supporting him. "We can talk it through with the therapist."

"Sherlock, you really shouldn't be taking any kind of drugs," said Molly in a very small voice.

"Don't patronize me, Molly. I know. But I've had such violent hallucinations and it's been the only way to stop it." Sherlock was breathing a bit hard. "Do you want to try easing me off it, or would flat stopping be better?" He closed his eyes. "Last time, there was a clinic and a support group, and I don't want that again."

"I'm going to do it here, I am a doctor, after all. Not a very good one, but a doctor all the same." He smiled, trying to reassure him that he was going to be okay. "Come on, up you get." He tried pulling him to his feet but his legs gave out, so he ended up carrying him to the living room, whilst molly looked for all the cocaine in his room. John put Sherlock on the couch with Hamish whilst he got him orange juice. "Here you go," he passed him it, then sat down in front of his legs. "So, your last dose was before you went to Molly's, I'm guessing? That was about two hours ago, so you can have some in about three."

Sherlock wiped his mouth weakly. He'd dribbled his juice slightly. "You're not a bad doctor," he reassured John. "You said so yourself, the very second day we knew each other. Remember?" Sherlock smiled at the memory. "Things were so much simpler then. No Avery. No troubled relationship. No paparazzi. No Moriarty."

Molly came out of Sherlock's room, pale, but hands full of tiny bags. "I think I've got it all." She wasn't meeting Sherlock's gaze, clearly not sure what to think. "How long, Sherlock? We're your friends. Why didn't you tell us you had a problem?"

"I've not been taking it long. Not even a week," Sherlock replied. "Or maybe just a week. And I don't have a problem. I have persistent vivid hallucinations. Voices, smells, even sensations. The cocaine was the only thing to stop it." He deliberately avoided alluding to what had happened in the barn in France. Molly trusted him, and he needed all the help he could get. "I've been taking it at regular intervals, steady dosing. Like a medication. I've not been escalating the dosage. I've used different needles every time. I'm fine." He honestly felt he was being safe, as safe as he could be, at any rate.

"Not entirely, for example, when your dad turned up. You were extremely high." He shook his head. "No, I'm holding onto these. Molly, dispose of three quarters of them, please." Sherlock looked as if his violin had been smashed all over again. "Sorry, Sherlock, but it has to be done." He pulled a sorry look before nodding at Molly to show he was serious. She smiled and said that she'd be back later before she left. John shot a worried look at him, before embracing him. "I'm sorry I didn't pay more attention." He mumbled.

"That was because of the nightmare. You know I don't do well with strong emotions, particularly fear. Yes, I slipped up then. I admit that. And at Molly's when I got your text. Fear, John. I don't know what to do with it. My reaction is to run from it." Sherlock was shaking his head. "It's not that you didn't pay attention. You had no reason to suspect the truth. You trusted me. I violated that trust, and for that I apologize. I just…don't know what to do." He was feeling better now as the high faded. "When I'm on the drugs, I feel alright. Neutral. Comfortable. I can think about the barn without spinning into a panic. And you saw, I solved a case Lestrade classified as complicated without even leaving the flat. Yes, for fifteen minutes at a time, I'm high. But the six hours after that, I'm myself again. That matters."

Molly came in. "It's gone." She came over to Sherlock and cautiously put her hand on his shoulder. "We're here for you, Sherlock. We care. And twenty-four seven, one of us is going to be here." She smiled gently.

John got Molly to watch Sherlock, making sure she didn't have the drugs. "I'm popping out, be back soon." He slipped out of the building.

When he arrived at his destination, he grinned. Perfect. He went inside. The place, was a shop. A large, grand shop, filled with the most beautiful musical instruments he'd ever seen. It smelled like a library, but more polished. He paced up the stairs and into the string section. "How may I help you?" The shop assistant asked, eagerly.

"I'd like to see your finest violins, please." He smiled. The man took him to a small room, that had about twenty violins inside it, on shelves.

"These are the finest in Britain; brought from Italy." John looked at the glossy instruments. Most of them looked the same, apart from one. A sleek, black and shiny one, with a silver outline. "This one." John decided, immediately.

"This one is twelve thousand." The man raised his eyebrow. "Are you sure about this one? You haven't heard it played, yet." He smiled, picking it up and playing a soft tune. The violin sounded so gentle, but the assistant also showed other tunes, more manic. "Perfect." John smiled, "This one."

John returned home, Sherlock was sleeping on the couch, and Molly was in the kitchen. "Hello, John! What's that?" She smiled, looking at the large brown bag he was carrying. "A surprise for Sherlock." He nodded, and went to put it on Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock was having another dream about Avery.

"I told you you needed to tell him."

Sherlock turned his head to see Avery standing, not, for once, smoking, but instead just watching. "I—"

"Don't make excuses, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you."

Sherlock realized he was bound hand and foot like a mummy by ice-blue ethereal ropes.

"I need you to listen. Do whatever you need to take care of yourself and John. I know you don't want me, but I'm protecting you. I'll always protect your interests—both of you. I'll come back to prove it to you. Some day."

Sherlock felt himself falling again, backwards, and it frightened him just enough to wake him as he fell off the sofa.

"John!" He was winded from his fall, even though it was just a short one. "Avery! I need!" He began scrambling about on the floor, disorientated. "I need some, I need it, I can't let him come back, he can't come back."

John emerged from Sherlock's room, checking his watch. "Hm, you're due a dose, anyway. Not a full one, though." He strode over, and pulled Sherlock up the the sofa. "Here." He passed him the pouch he'd been keeping, the syringe half full. Sherlock looked grateful as he injected. "Another six hours." John sighed. "When you can walk, come to your room, I have a surprise."

"You shouldn't have to see this," Sherlock whispered. His frantic breathing grew calmer as the drug took hold. He sat on the floor for a few minutes before slowly standing up and followed John to the room.

Sherlock saw the package and broke into a smile. "You've replaced my violin," he said, even though it was obvious. He took it out of the bag and ran his fingers along it. "It's…beautiful." He fetched his bow from the living room and began to play. The song was totally improvised, soaring, somehow both happy and tragic, like seeing the sun for the first time in years. Molly sat, aghast at Sherlock's ability to conjure up such beautiful music from midair.

"Wow," she said once he'd finished. Sherlock took a small bow, and then registered a single person's applause that was coming from no one.

"At least Avery enjoyed the music," he muttered bitterly.

John smiled at him. "I'm glad you like it, ignore him." Sherlock nodded, grimly. "Come on, food." He pulled him into the living room, and sat him down. "Hm, what do you fancy?" He was trying to stay upbeat, but it was difficult when Sherlock was so down. "Come on, love. You don't need to be sad, we're going to get through this, I promise you. Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

"Nearly," Sherlock replied with a glare, obviously referring to John's near-suicides. "I'm not particularly hungry, but if you insist, I'll eat anything you think would be appropriate."

_I'd go for a bacon sandwich._

Sherlock twitched at the intrusion. Thankfully it was only one sense that Avery was intruding upon, thanks to his half-dose of cocaine. "Anything other than a bacon sandwich."

_Well, if you're going to be like that about it, forget I asked._

Molly sat with him on the sofa while John cooked. "Who exactly is Avery? You don't have to answer." She looked down at the floor.

Sherlock swallowed. "If you insist on staying here, you'll need to know. A few weeks ago, I…" His voice was cracking slightly. "I momentarily died. My brain rewired itself and created another personality."

Molly looked up. "You had a split personality?" Sherlock nodded. "That's why you didn't answer your door."

"He was violently protective of John and I. I think he was in love with the both of us." Sherlock took a deep calming breath. "We thought we'd gotten rid of him. Experimental neurosurgery of a sort. But then I started hallucinating him. The cocaine—the full dose I've been taking—has been the only thing to make him completely go away. The half-dose I took earlier…I still hear him."

Molly reached over to hug him and he didn't pull away. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't know it was so hard for you recently." She was crying a little bit. In her world, Sherlock had always been rock-solidly steady, someone she could rely on to be firm and unwavering, and now that she saw him as something else, it was painful.

_Poor, sweet Molly. She knows you'll never reciprocate her feelings and still cares anyway._

Sherlock twitched his head again in a pointless effort to make Avery go away. He badly craved another injection to stave off the panic and despair, but he decided not to voice it.

"Egg on toast." John mumbled, and he walked into the kitchen. _Poor innocent Molly, he's taking advantage of you both, you know it, I know it. _John shook his head, wincing slightly._ You know I'm right, Johnny. You know that he's all for the drugs, and doesn't care about you or sweet, sweet Molly. Grow up, Doctor, it's time to stop dreaming. _John dropped the pan he was using, with a loud clang. Sherlock and Molly snapped their heads to look at what had happened. "John? Are you okay?" Molly came over to look at him, he was pale and shaking. "Um. Excuse me." He ran into his bedroom and shut the door.

_So, what now, huh? Are you going to leave him here with Molly? You know she'll fall into his little trap, like you did. _

"Shut up." John whispered, and he sat down on the bed with his head in his hands.

_You'd like that, wouldn't you? I'm your voice of reason, Watson. I tell you the bitter and honest truth. You don't always like it, but you know that I am right. _

John shook his head, hoping and praying that this voice would stop.

_Well, I guess I know what's happened. The novelty on your relationship has worn off! You're used to him not paying attention, and now you're clinging on, in the hopes that he changes! He won't. I promise you that. There's a reason his relationship never worked out with that girl, you know. She expected him to be like any other adolescent; sexually active, humorous, fun. But she was wrong. So were you. _

"Just shut up!" John was screaming at the top of his lungs, pushing the sides of his head.

Sherlock was just a fraction of an instant ahead of Molly as he rushed into John's room. He grabbed John's hands away from his head. He knew that it was possible to cause severe cranial damage with just the fists. "John, listen to me. I need you to listen. Focus on me, focus on my voice. You're brilliant, John, you are, you're the most amazing man I've ever met. You need to stay who you are."

"Is this them?" Molly came into the room in a hurry, holding a pill bottle. They were Sherlock's pills, though he thought of them being Avery's. "I found them in the bookshelf."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "John, I know how loud it is. I don't know what it's saying to you, but you have to ignore it. Take this." He rested it on John's lips. "You have to take it." He half-forced John to swallow it (Molly cringed at this but didn't stop him as it seemed John couldn't hear) and then wrapped his arms around him. "I told you not to stop taking the pills. Please, John, you have to be strong. For us—for me," he quickly corrected, hating his error. "I can't do this alone." He looked up. "Molly, call his therapist. The number's in his phone." Molly nodded and made a quick retreat. "Shhh, John, I'm here. Shhh." He rocked John gently, holding him tightly, placing himself where John's arms couldn't reach his head.

Molly came back in. "She says she's on her way." Molly looked just as helpless as Sherlock felt.

"Good." Sherlock knew John probably wouldn't want Dr. Thompson's opinion on this, but between the two of them, things had gone too far.

_Oh, yeah, now you care._

"We'll be fine, John. Dr. Thompson's coming, Molly's here, I'm here, Av—we're all here. You'll be alright. Please. We're bonded, you and I. But it's a delicate thread and we both have to hold on to it." His voice changed slightly, darker, more passionate. "I love you," he whispered into John's ear before kissing it. He placed John's head to his own heart. "My heart can only beat for you. Listen to it." Then his tone returned to one nearer his normal state. "I need you, John." He was going to need his full dose of cocaine when this was done with.

**Sherlock's blog:**

I don't know how much longer it would be appropriate to continue living in 221B. Not with Avery in my head and whatever the hell is going on in John's, not to mention the addictions and the near-suicides and the hyper-intense blood-fetish.

We're going to try as long as we can to live without medical supervision, but we have to be realistic. We may have to move out.

John was only half listening to Sherlock, he was staring off into space. His breath was tickling his neck, before he whispered to him, making him snap out of it. Sherlock's voice seemed different, but it calmed John down. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, and he kissed him softly on the lips before going back to listening to the beat of his heart, putting his arms underneath his dressing gown to embrace him. John stayed silent, and allowed Sherlock to rock him gently, and he almost forgot Molly was there until she spoke.

"You two need to talk about what happened, in full." Her voice, for once, was deadly serious. "This will only get worse, for the both of you." She paced over and joined the hug. "I care about you both, very much. You're the only people who don't avoid me." She pulled back and smiled, "I'm going to make you two some tea." and she left the room.

"Does she mean to each other or to Dr. Thompson?" Sherlock was mostly speaking to himself, though wasn't averse to John answering the question. John seemed much calmer now, trance-like, but not asleep. Sherlock began to hum the French lullaby that seemed to help John before. "Please, John, be alright." It was almost like a prayer. "Your sanity is the only thing keeping me from slipping further. I'm…craving another injection right now, and it hurts, it hurts so much, but I won't leave you unattended to get one. If I lose you, I don't know what I'll become." He kissed John on the top of the head, tearfully. "Dr. Thompson will be here soon. If anyone can get through this, you can. You're a soldier. Fight."

The doorbell buzzed and Molly answered. They couldn't make out what she was saying, but it was plain that there was another female voice—Dr. Thompson. Molly knocked on the door. "Dr. Thompson's here, Sherlock. Should I tell her to come in here or that you're coming out there?"

"In here," Sherlock said. "Bring a chair. And Molly, thank you. For everything."

Molly smiled slightly. "That's what friends do, Sherlock."

The conversation with Dr. Thompson was awkward and slow. John had to describe the feelings he went through during the 'attack'. She asked him what the voice had said, and he refused to say whilst Sherlock was present. "Nothing personal, it's just offensive." John sighed, waving his hand absentmindedly. Sherlock said that he was used to offence from most people, and that he wanted to know. He went on to explain, and saw the acute horror on his face.

"Well," Sherlock said definitively. He wasn't sure how to reply. Softly, and after several minutes during which Dr. Thompson's body language egged him on, he spoke. "If I didn't care about you, would I have come back at your text?" He was looking deep into John's eyes for a hint of understanding. "It distressed me to the point where I—this does fall under doctor-patient confidentiality, doesn't it?" Dr. Thompson nodded, skeptically. "I had to inject myself again, just to prevent a spiral of panic at the thought that you might actually kill yourself." He closed his eyes, the vision in his head of John on the floor, a bullet in his head and blood everywhere so vivid it was like one of his mentally mapped-out crime scenes—everything was in perfect detail, right down to the agonized expression on John's face. "And I need another one now." His hands were shaking badly.

All the things you'd do for him, and without feeling love. You're a peculiar man, Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock bit his lip, trying to ignore Avery, even if he was being complimentary. "I'm sorry a part of you feels that way about me." He froze, uncertain of the correct next move. "Thank you for telling me what the voice said. I needed to hear that. It helps me understand."

"It's not a part of me, it's not me at all." John sighed. "Excuse me, Dr. Thompson, I have to give Sherlock his medication." He grabbed onto Sherlock's hand, and took him into his bedroom. "Here you go." John passed him a syringe, which had a little less in it than last time. Sherlock injected, quickly, turning around so John couldn't see. His arm was bleeding slightly. John gently took his arm, and wiped the blood off, applying some antibacterial solution, and putting a plaster on it. When it was covered, he kissed it gently.

"It's not enough," Sherlock moaned softly. "It won't be enough." He could tell he was coming off it too quickly, withdrawal symptoms tickling at the back of his mind. "Getting hard to find an unconstricted vein, too," he said, covering his pock-marked arm with his sleeve. He plodded back to John's room, hoping John would follow. There was enough cocaine in him to produce a high, but nowhere near his usual amount and the feeling that he was between a high and a crash was making him feel strange.

"I think you need to talk to her alone for a while, John. There's always our…couple's therapy session…whenever you made it. I have to…the living room." Sherlock returned to the living room where he sat on the sofa and just sort of stared—at least that's how it looked to Molly. In Sherlock's head, though, Avery was slowly coming into visible form again and it was he that Sherlock was watching. At first, Avery was just like an imprint, a reflection, but he slowly solidified, though Sherlock couldn't smell or feel him. His stomach was starting to hurt as well—part of the semi-withdrawals. "I need more," he moaned.

Molly put her hands on his knees, sitting right in front of him. "No, Sherlock." Her voice was gentle but insistent and not patronizing in any way. She hugged him again.

"Make him go away. Avery, I mean."

"So, John. Explain to me, the night of your attack, when you were taken hostage; if you're comfortable with doing so." He sighed, and sat down on the chair.

"They used Sherlock against me." He said, bluntly. "Sebastian, Moriarty's henchman, wore a coat identical to his." Dr. Thompson was writing this down, nodding.

"Right, and what effects has them using him against you had on your relationship with him?"

"Nothing really. It's just left me with this voice. It comes back whenever it pleases, to scream negativity at me."

When the session was over, John came out to find Sherlock playing his violin. "Dr. Thompson is leaving now," He whispered to him. Sherlock ignored him, and continued playing. "Sherlock, are you okay?" Nothing.

"He's been like this for about an hour," Molly said. "I don't know what's wrong. It's like when the high faded, he faded. I'm scared, John." Her face showed it.

Sherlock's face was blank, but his eyes were full of desperation that was coming out in his music. It was almost as if his violin were pleading for help on his behalf. Avery was talking animatedly to him, trying to reassure him that John would be fine, but the fact that it was Avery was enough to make him want to run away.

_You know I won't let anything happen to him. Neither of us will. He'll be fine. Institutionalization won't be necessary. As long as we can remind him to take his medicine, and make certain he does, we're going to be okay. _Avery smiled._ I promise, nothing is going to hurt him or you. Please, Sherlock, listen to me. I love you and I'd do anything for you, you know I would. Please, please, let me help you._

The violin-playing grew more and more strained, less professional, but Sherlock didn't stop.

"Sherlock." John grabbed onto his arm, getting his attention. "Look at me." Sherlock slowly turned to look at him, a pained expression on his face. "It's okay." Sherlock stayed perfectly still. "Come here, it's okay!" John wrapped his arms around him, trying to soothe him. Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably, swaying slightly now. "Come to the couch." John sat him down and told Molly to get some juice. "What's wrong?" he sat down next to him and slipped their hands together.

"It's not enough. I can't fight. I need—" Sherlock's voice was small, feeble. At John's touch, his face changed. Less helpless. He swung around and sat on John's lap, straddling John's legs. There was a strange hunger in his eyes as he unbuttoned John's shirt. John tried to move his arms off, obviously confused. "I just need to see." He continued to unbutton, his face not looking quite right. He pulled John's shirt apart, completely exposing his chest.

Sherlock's fingers ran down the wounds on John's chest, not quite healed yet from the damage inflicted in France. He tilted his head, studying the damage. "My God. What's he done to you?"

Just then Molly returned. "You're running out of—oh. Um."

Molly raised her eyebrow, and said she'd leave, though John tried to reassure her that it was nothing sexual, and probably just effects from the drugs. When she'd left, John turned to Sherlock. "What's going on?" He frowned slightly, as his hands moved across his scars. "Sherlock, are you feeling alright?" He cupped his face and stared into his eyes. "What's going on?"

"Reemergence." Sherlock's mouth twisted into a horrible smile before fading back into at first confusion and then fear. "No. No." He stood up and John could hear him confronting Molly. "What have you done with them? Where have you put them?"

"Sherlock, let go."

"Give them to me, Molly. I need a full dose. I can't let him come back." Sherlock's voice was frightened. "You don't know what it's like to have someone else living in your head that you thought you'd killed but it turns out he's just unconscious and now he's trying to come back."

"Sherlock, you're hurting me."

Sherlock came storming back into the living room and started tossing things around. "I need them. I can't—tell me where they are!" He practically roared the words at John and Molly.

"No." John said flatly. "Smash up what you want, but you're not having any for a few hours." Sherlock was looming over him. "You don't scare me, and I'm standing by what I said. Now, you can't get proper help until you're off the drugs, and that's a medical fact." Sherlock slumped down angrily on the sofa. "Don't hurt Molly like that again." Molly was rubbing her wrist, which was red from where Sherlock had grabbed her.

"You don't understand," Sherlock growled. He was physically anxious, restless, panicking. He stood back up. "Don't you see, John?" He'd grabbed John by the lapels and was holding him to the wall while Molly watched in horror. "On the sofa, a few moments ago, sitting on you—that wasn't me." Though his face was distorted as it was, his eyes betrayed the true fear and pain he was in—most other people would have been in tears. "One moment, I'm sitting there next to you, and the next I'm sitting on top of you and your shirt's open." He was shaking. "_Avery's coming back_," he hissed. "When he's not sitting in front of me or talking to me, I feel him—" Quite suddenly, he leaned in and kissed John passionately, as if the endorphins from that act would help to ease the pain he was in. "Mmno," he said, pulling away, staggering back to the sofa and lying down, facing away from the rest of the room, curling up in terror.

"Molly, I think you should go home now, he's going to get violent and I don't want to see you get hurt." Molly hugged him and nodded.  
>"Bye Sherlock," She called, but he didn't answer.<p>

"You won't be able to block him out with him anyway soon. So don't start getting annoyed. Your body isn't getting as high from a full dose anyway, it lasts for a shorter time each time you inject. Soon enough, you'd be taking too much, and that's far too dangerous for my liking." He was standing looking over Sherlock, who was refusing to turn around. "Please, I'm doing this because I love you, Sherlock." Sherlock turned onto his side, facing John. He grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto the sofa, climbing on top of him. "Avery, let go." John sighed.

"It hurts, John," came a voice that obviously didn't quite belong to Sherlock. "The withdrawals." His voice changed just that tiny little bit that indicated he was Sherlock again. "Coming off it too quickly. Like the bends. Should have taken several weeks to slow down, not two days. Or one day. Or however long it's been. I don't know." He groaned with pain and curled slightly. "The pain wasn't this bad last time. I suppose it's really to be expected. I was injecting once a day, not three times." A tear ran down his face. "_Please_, John. Just a little. Just to take the edge off. Just enough to keep Avery at bay. Or something to make me sleep through the withdrawals."

"I can't, I'm sorry. I won't risk it." Sherlock was pinning him down to the sofa, begging him. "If I give in now, I'll give in to anything, I can't." Sherlock looked pained. He rested his forehead against John's, and looked into his eyes, begging. "Sherlock, I won't do it. I'm sorry. You have to kick this addiction, and fast." His breath started to speed up, because he hadn't been this close to Sherlock in some time. "Sherlock, it's really not good for you to be on top of me." He felt a blush rising to his cheeks, but Sherlock didn't move, instead, his grip on John's arms grew stronger.

"I—no." Sherlock could see Avery merging with him. It was like this now, before he changed. Avery's hands melted into his. It felt strange, but he couldn't stop it. "This is lovely," Avery sneered half-sarcastically. Suddenly, Sherlock's face scrunched up in pain and Sherlock's voice returned. "No. I can't." His eyes rolled back and he toppled over sideways off the sofa and into the coffee table with a groan and a thump. He looked violently feverish, but was only slightly warm. "Anything," he moaned. "Please, anything."

"Bed." John sighed, sitting up. "Come on, you need to lie down." John had to carry him to his room. Sherlock was complaining, but couldn't move if he wanted to. He was shaking and begging for another fix, but there was no way John could give him one, not for another three hours. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm sorry you had to go through this but it's for the best."

Sherlock lay in his bed like a man stricken by a severe fever. He rolled and moaned constantly, and the closest he got to sleep was delirium. His mind wasn't working at all except to register Avery and John's presence and to beg both of them to make this pain stop.

Even Sherlock's hallucination of Avery was pale and sweating, obviously in pain, and in the moments he took over, he kept repeating to John that this was the right thing to do for both of them and that no matter how much pain Sherlock seemed to be in, John was right.

It was the middle of the night now, and Sherlock had ceased to writhe. His eyes seemed soulless—the same as they had been when John had rescued Sherlock from Moriarty. "Please." It was the only word he'd been saying for the last hour, and he'd been repeating it over and over. It was disturbing to see him begging like this, barely recognizable as the person he had been.

John finally gave in. It was against all rational thoughts; seeing Sherlock in pain was the worst thing for him. He injected him, this time, which made him feel physically ill, but he knew that it would make Sherlock feel better. "Here." He winced as the needle pierced the flesh- he'd used the back of his knee this time because the vein was showing against his pale flesh, unlike on his arms. Sherlock gasped with relief as the liquid seeped into his bloodstream, and turned his head to John. He thanked him, with a small and weak smile.

Sherlock's pupils dilated quickly. It'd been nearly a full dose. Already the pain was fading, and so was Avery. "Thank you," he said, gently hugging John, badly in need of a shave and shower. "I'm sorry. I've been a bit selfish, haven't I? I didn't think about the pain. Last time it wasn't like this. I'm so, so sorry." He'd stopped shaking for the most part, and a spark of life had come back into his eyes. But of course, he was still quite weak, though infused with a bit more strength. "I think we tried to reduce the dosage too quickly." When John mentioned that that was what Avery had said, Sherlock frowned. "Great minds," he muttered.

He breathed deliberately for a while, heart pumping a bit more quickly than John would have liked, but after three minutes, Sherlock managed to stand and walk to the living room. He sat in his chair and plucked at his violin abstractly until the high faded, after which time he put it down. "I feel better now," he said. "Much better. Where's Molly? I don't remember her leaving."

"Avery pinned me against the wall and kissed me. At least, I think it was Avery, it wasn't like you." He looked at him, sadly. "He's coming back, slowly. I'm finding it hard to tell who is who… What if he tries something on and I go along with it thinking that it's you?" He stood up next to him. "Hug me." He nuzzled into his shoulder, like a lost child.

Sherlock awkwardly obliged. "If that happens, John, don't blame yourself. Both he and I are equally cunning. He knows the art of disguise as well as I do." He broke off the hug as he preferred to make eye contact when speaking. "This isn't your fault in any way. If it's anyone's, it's mine. Or Moriarty's." It wasn't intended as self-blame or doubt, merely as a rational observation.

He sat down, feeling level once again. He watched, mostly detached as John sat in his own chair. He wondered what sort of things would come out at their couples' therapy before realizing he didn't even know when John had set the appointment for. "How soon is our couples' appointment, anyway?" He smiled at his own absurdity for his next statement: "What day is it? It's early Wednesday, isn't it?"

"Yes. I think our therapy is today, at three actually. You should go and get ready." Sherlock nodded and walked into the bathroom.

When they arrived at the session, the Councillor introduced herself. "Hello, I'm Doctor Wilson. So, tell me about yourselves and your relationship, and why you have chose to meet with me?" She smiled over her desk, and gestured to the seats in front of it. John looked at Sherlock, urging him to go first.

Sherlock sat in the left chair. For some reason, he always preferred that John was to his right. He'd yet to metabolize his last dose of cocaine, but it was going to be close before the session was over. Of course, he couldn't bring that to the attention of the good doctor. He knew there was every chance his emotional control was going to slip before long as the drug craving started again (and it was already a tingling nagging sensation in the back of his mind), but he had to do this, and figured that total openness was going to be the best approach.

"I didn't choose it. But I have no objections. It was John's idea." He spoke matter-of-factly, even coldly. "I think we're here because I'm unable to feel romantic attachment to anyone, let alone what society and even most neurologists define as love. As well as the fact that I can be manipulative, distant, and occasionally brutal to John and have been responsible for his near-death on more occasions than come to mind at present, either directly or otherwise." He avoided eye contact with John, which he was sure even the ex-army doctor would be able to pick up on.

The doctor nodded, and then nodded at John, signaling that it was his turn. "He has said he loves me," He cleared his throat. "But that was in a moment of despair, probably to make me feel better." He could suddenly feel Sherlock's eyes on him, but he didn't look. "He's been going through many problems lately, so I understand." The doctor nodded again.  
>"Right, and do you love him, John?"<br>"Yes." John nodded, sadly. "Very much." The doctor went on to ask about their sex life, and how frequently it happened. John stayed silent as Sherlock explained how it was dangerous for John to participate in anything sexual with him.

Sherlock was plainly very uncomfortable with this topic. "I've recently—I've either recently developed or recently noticed an…extreme blood fetish. But only once I've already—" He took a deep breath as if having trouble forming the words. "When I feel…sexual, when I participate in sex, it's as if my mind runs away. I babble. I say things that don't make sense. I feel distant. An observer to the act, rather than a participant. Only in that state am I aroused by blood, and only John's blood. I feel like I have to cover myself in it. I don't understand why." He shifted in his seat, leaning away from John before registering his own body language and corrected it. "I've nearly killed him twice. When I get in that state…I…devolve. Any sense of self-restraint is lost." He made a move to John to show the therapist what he'd done but did not look at him.

John opened the top of his shirt, and the therapist nodded. "Yes, I've seen this before. There is a medication that you can take so that you are a participant and not an observer. It can be used for those with a personality disorder- perhaps that has something to do with it, Mr Holmes. Doctors usually overlook it because of it's age." She smiled. John stared at Sherlock, wide eyed. "Would you be interested in trying it?"

Sherlock shot a look at John, plainly meant to inquire about the interaction with cocaine. "Uh…I've had a split personality. In the past. But apparently he wasn't like that. He was never violent in love. And he could love." Sherlock's words were strained—Avery was something he didn't want to discuss. "When it comes to sex, I'm more worried about John's mental health than my own. I know where I stand. I know how to control it. I don't mind abstinence. I was abstinent for over thirty years. As I've said, I find no attraction to blood when I'm not in that peculiar state of arousal." He looked at John sadly. "But John shows all signs of a severe addiction, similar to heroin or cocaine. He knows the danger. He knows how much it can hurt, yet he still comes back for more. And not just in sex; there was a misunderstanding a few days ago and I left the flat. Within half an hour I received a text hinting that if I didn't return in an hour, he'd kill himself." He examined John's reaction, knowing that this was probably something he'd rather not have the therapist know, or at least that it should have come from his own mouth and not Sherlock's. "I've seen the effect of such a severe addiction, admittedly to drugs. Every waking thought is consumed by the need to get a fix, even just a little one. You know you shouldn't continue. You know it'll kill you. But you just can't help yourself and when the withdrawals come, all you want to do is die." Sherlock looked back to the therapist. "The fact that he is so addicted frightens me."

"People take amphetamine and cocaine because it rewards the "feel-good" area of the brain. The same happens when people are experiencing the intense desire of a romantic love." She put down her pen, and looked up at them. "Scientists have found that the neurology behind love and pain do have overlaps. What John is addicted to is called Dopamine. Because it's in the brain, there is no way he can stop his addiction. People usually stop being addicted through time, but you two have been together for over two years, which shows me that the addiction is going to last." Sherlock's eyes were flickering from one side of her face to the other. "It's rather like when a drug addict continues to take drugs even though they know the harmful effects."

"I'm well aware of the neurochemistry of love," Sherlock said, exasperated. She plainly couldn't see what Sherlock was getting at. "My concern stems from the fact that it's such an extreme addiction. Most couples I've observed wouldn't use the threat of suicide to guilt-trip an occasionally-abusive lover into coming back even when that lover knew that sometimes a temporary separation would be for the best." He bit his lip slightly. "I can't help but think he would have been better off with Avery. The other personality. He could love. Completely and utterly. In fact, he did. He didn't have this—this violent blood-fetish. He understood the tenderness required for a relationship. He wouldn't hurt John. Not like I've been doing time and time again. Every time I think of myself as being with someone, it's wrong. It goes against every fibre of my being to need someone. The wretched thing is that it was my idea. But as an experiment into myself, into my own sexuality. I didn't think about what would happen if he grew too attached to me." He stood up and walked to the window and stared out, running his hands through his hair. "That's all it was ever intended to be. An experiment. And now it's gotten out of control and I can't stop it if I wanted to."

John stayed silent. Sherlock paced the room, and the therapist nodded and noted down what he was saying. Eventually, John said something. "It seems like I'm in the wrong for having feelings." He stayed sitting down, as Sherlock turned to look at him. "It's not my fault, and I've said this before, I love you and not Avery. As for me 'threatening to kill myself', I think you'll find it wasn't a threat. I would have done it." He sighed, and looked up at Sherlock. "I'm sorry if you think it was a guilt trip."

"I know you would have done it. That's what terrifies me." Sherlock looked very steadily at John, frozen, hoping he hadn't done something horrible. "I said it wrong. I didn't mean that you were using the option of suicide purely to manipulate me. I just meant that…I can't express it properly." His brow was furrowed. Plainly his emotional control was, as predicted, wavering. "Don't even let it into your list of options, John. Not ever. If—Romeo and Juliet," he said, as it was the best metaphor he could think of. "I couldn't go on, knowing that the closest friend—" His breathing was harder and he was clenching his jaw, unable to finish the thought. "It's your turn to talk. I've expressed enough for now." He sat back down in the chair and closed his eyes as he only wanted John's words.

"Well, I'm not sure what to say apart from how I feel about him." He tapped his fingers on the desk. "That much is obvious, we all know I'm in love with him, and I have been since I first knew him."  
>"And, John, why did the relationship start?"<br>"I guess it was because my feelings became obvious and he wanted to see if he could love me back." He gulped and looked down at the desk.  
>"Sherlock, have you <em>ever<em> felt anything akin to love for John?"  
>John glanced at him, nervously.<p>

_Since we met? How could I have missed that?_ Sherlock was looking at John, somewhat startled. "I…I don't know." He flashed back to the time he was lying on a gurney, being taken in for his operation. "There was a moment. When I thought I was going to die. I was being taken in for a sort of surgery to rid me of the other personality. Just as—just as they wheeled me away, I felt…I felt like if the odds were going to win and I'd have total personality erasure, I'd still find a connection to him. I don't know if that's love." The topic was one of anguish for him. He wanted very much to know love, to feel its reported warm glow flowing through him. "Though in fairness to him, I've never loved anyone. At all. The nearest I've felt was safety and only two people have given me that. My brother and John."

_I could love him for you if you'd let me. _Just a whisper, just a hint, but Avery's voice was back.

Sherlock shut his eyes tightly. "So I suppose the brutal answer to your question is no, I've never felt what is commonly termed love for him." On the left side of his face, the side John couldn't see, a tear was slowly rolling down his cheek.

"It certainly sounds like you could work on something though." The therapist beamed over the desk. "Don't give up hope, as they say. Would you like to try the medication I suggested before, Mr Holmes? I'd like to meet with you weekly from now on, until any problems that you feel that you have are resolved." Sherlock nodded, and wiped his cheek- John assumed he'd been crying slightly.

When Sherlock spoke, it was softly. "Yes. Yes, I think it wouldn't hurt." He rose and shook her hand, clearing his throat. "Not Thursdays, though. I have an appointment with my regular therapist on Thursdays and I shouldn't like them to conflict."

He left the appointment scheduling (and for that matter, paying) for John, too wrapped up in his thoughts and the fact that he was starting to sweat. "It's time," he whispered as they left the building. "I need another dose." He didn't register John's reply over Avery's reassurances that he wasn't broken, just trapped inside an emotional shell.

When they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock bounded inside first. John was right behind and just in time to hear an angry voice and strangled gasping.

"Do you want to know why he is the way he is? It's not a physical defect. It's because of neglect, because his whole childhood, the man he should have been looking up to was constantly telling him he was worthless. You've only ever hurt him. You're just as incapable of love as he thinks he is." Sherlock (or rather Avery) had his father pinned to the wall, his arm across the older man's throat. The elder Holmes was gasping, unable to breathe, trying to choke out words, but he was slowly going blue in the face. "Don't give me the crap about how you're dying and this is your one chance to make amends. You should have thought about it decades ago when you told him he was nothing to you. It's too late for regrets." There was fire in Avery/Sherlock's eyes. "And you even gave him your name—Avery. And I've taken it because I couldn't think of another. I hate it. There are only three things I hate in this world: James Moriarty who raped and tortured me, Sebastian Moran who helped him, and _you_. It's only because there are witnesses that I'm not slitting your throat here and now." He pressed his arm further into the throat of the dying man, causing any gasping to cease—still alive, but he wouldn't be in three minutes. "I'll be glad when you're gone. My only regret is not beating Nature to it."

"Get off him!" John pulled his arm off his throat, and stood in front of Mr Holmes. "I punched him in the face, admittedly, but I didn't try and kill him. Just fuck off into that room until you're going to act normal!" John pushed Avery into Sherlock's room and locked the door.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes." He murmured. "Listen, I apologize for punching you in the face, and knocking you out. Your son is going through far too much right now."  
>"Why on earth was he talking about himself in third person?" He was coughing the words out and holding his neck. "I knew he was messed up but that's too far!"<br>"He has a split personality." Mr Holmes sat down and held his head in his hands as John explained. "The half of him that you just saw is called Avery, which is, I believe, his middle name, and yours."  
>Mr Holmes was shaking, not with rage, but with fear. "I always knew that there was something not right with him, but I thought it was because my son's had brilliant minds." He sighed, and looked up. "I can't say he's better than he was, but at least he has a home to live in. Doctor Watson, you can tell, that I am a dying man. I came here to make amends with the son I neglected, and he won't accept it."<br>John sat down opposite him, and looked at him with slight sympathy. "I understand. He can't accept any apology, though, Mr Holmes. By the sounds of it, you preferred Mycroft over him. I understand that Mycroft has a better job, and Mycroft went through a full time education, but that does not mean that Sherlock is any less of a person, in fact, it gives him character."  
>"I just don't understand what I can do to tell him everything without him trying to kill me!"<br>"Write him a letter."

It was an hour later when Mr Holmes left, leaving a letter on the coffee table, addressed to Sherlock. John knocked on the door, waiting for an answer, but instead, all he could hear was the scratch of matches and the smell of cigarette smoke.

When John opened the door, he saw Avery/Sherlock puffing on a cigarette furiously. "Don't tell me to 'fuck off', John." Sherlock would have phrased his response differently, making it quite clear that it was Avery whose hands were shaking. "All these years that anger has been hiding inside of him. He's hidden it. Buried it." He took a drag and blew the smoke out steadily to calm himself. "The way that man treats Sherlock, he doesn't deserve to live." There was no regret in his eyes, no conscience. "I'm sick of Sherlock feeling like he has to hide."

"He left him a letter." John sat down on the bed next to him. "I'm sorry for telling you to fuck off, but you were going to kill him, and I'm not risking anything where Sherlock's concerned." He looked at him. "Sherlock doesn't have to hide, not from me or anybody. He's is from me, though. I can't kiss him or anything, and it hurts." A tear dropped from his eye. "Sorry, I shouldn't be burdening you with this, I'll go." John stood up and went to the door.

Avery was in such a foul mood that he didn't even try to stop John from leaving. His mind was buzzing-dozens of different thoughts (some of them violent and none of them Sherlock's) swarming through his head like a swarm of angry bees. He entertained them for a while, but slowly, one by one, the thoughts quieted and his eyes closed.

John looked up from his bed, realizing that he smelled smoke, and not cigarette smoke. This was burning cotton and polyester. Avery had fallen asleep while smoking and now his/Sherlock's bed was on fire, and he was too asleep to notice—it had been days since he'd had a proper sleep because John wouldn't let him take the sleeping pill, and now it was putting him in danger.

Luckily, John was used to Moriarty exploding and burning the place, so he'd previously acquired a fire extinguisher. He pulled it in from the living room cabinet and sprayed it onto the bed, waking Avery and causing him to panic. His arm had a patch of burn on it, and he was screaming in pain.  
>John pulled him off the bed onto the floor, and went to get his first aid kit.<br>"Avery, I don't want you to smoke in the house anymore. You can smoke out of the window, or on the step, but not in the house. You've ruined his bed, and hurt yourself, god knows what would have happened if I hadn't of noticed." He patched his arm up, but didn't kiss it as he did with Sherlock; Avery seemed quite hurt by this.

Avery raised an eyebrow. "But you don't mind me smoking. Interesting." He ran his fingers along the burn, fascinated, before coughing. His eyes watered as his body tried to be rid of the smoke in his lungs, coughing viciously, and then he froze and looked around in a panic. "What happened? One moment, I was coming up the stairs and saw my father and then I'm here." He winced and grabbed his arm. "There's been a fire?" Sherlock's hands were still shaking. "I need another dose. To keep Avery-" He started coughing again. "Ngh. To keep Avery away."

"Try this instead." John pulled out the pills that the therapist had given him, and handed them to Sherlock. "I know it's not the same, but he's starting trouble, and I'm sure this will keep him away, better than cocaine will." John put his arms around Sherlock. "I don't want this to happen again. I want you to stay. Please try this, for me, please." He pulled away and his eyes were watery, he was begging him to try something new. Sherlock nodded, solemnly and swallowed a pill.  
>"Your dad has left you a letter."<p>

Sherlock frowned. "I'm still going to have withdrawals." There was despair in his eyes. "And this is only meant to treat the disconnect I have when we shag, not to fight off Avery. But we'll try it." His shaking was getting worse as he held the envelope. "I don't think I'm ready to read this yet." He put the letter on his night-stand. "You make it sound like I want to be Avery. I don't." He put his hand on John's; not intertwining it with his own, but protectively holding it. "If he does come back, don't let him smoke. The second and third most addictive substances at once in me wouldn't mix well." He frowned and looked helpless. "I was able to remember something this time. Not much. I just remember complete sensory deprivation followed by the taste of the cigarette. Then it was like the nicotine was an anchor on my leg; I couldn't come out. It seems as though the cocaine drives Avery away, but the nicotine drives me away." Sherlock rubbed the burn on his arm absently, feeling the tug of the cocaine craving and wishing there were a needle in it. "Why does he have to be the healthier one?"

"I don't know, but you're here now and that's all that matters. Do you want something to eat?" John smiled, although Sherlock wasn't in the best of moods. "You're going to have to sleep in my bed tonight," he nodded at the bed with a sigh, "We'll go and look for another after your therapy session tomorrow." Sherlock nodded, absentmindedly; his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Sherlock was sat at the table with his hands in his thinking pose. "What do you fancy?" John asked, but he wasn't listening. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up. It took a few seconds to remember what John had just asked. "Um. Whispers in the back of my head. Distracting." He shook his head slightly. He dropped his hands from his thinking position and leaned back in the chair. It struck John that he'd lost quite a bit of weight since France, probably because of the cocaine. "A salad."

John looked reluctant at the fact that Sherlock wanted something so small, but made it anyway. They sat at the table, eating, but Sherlock did a lot of staring. He kept missing where his fork was, and was plainly not listening to John. "He's frantic," Sherlock said suddenly. "He's rambling. About…" His head drooped forward, not asleep, but into a listening pose. "About…I can't tell. Muffled. Like hearing someone in another room." He was plainly troubled. "It's strange. Not pleasant." Then he looked at John hard, carefully, in the same way he looked at the dead. "Have you taken your pills? They're technically mine, but it's the same stuff in the same dosage. You haven't, have you?"

"After yesterday, yeah." John smiled. He put his salad on the table and sat opposite him. "I guess Avery just isn't that into me, for once he didn't try anything." John frowned slightly, confused. "Instead, he just fell asleep and nearly burned the flat down." He chuckled. "We haven't spent time together in a while, do you want to watch a film, or go to the park, or anything?" Sherlock was frowning, his eyes glazing over. "Right, okay." John got up and went to the living room, and sprawled on the couch.

Sherlock was staring, rocking back and forth gently, to the beat of his pulse. His mind felt strange, clouded, delayed, like watching a film in slow motion and never being able to quite grasp the plot. He still couldn't hear Avery well enough to register, and it wasn't fun. It was like he was in a mostly-soundproof room and had a pair of headphones lying next to him playing loud enough to hear that there was something being said, but not enough to make anything out. His lips were moving soundlessly as they did when he was in his mind palace, but the motions made no sense—they weren't words he was mouthing, just a collection of sounds. "John," he said, after twenty solid minutes of this, once he realized he'd been staring at the kettle. "I don't like this. This medication." He stood up and made his way to the sofa, eyes barely registering what was going on around him. He sat down before checking to see if John's legs had moved (fortunately, John was quick enough to prevent them being sat on), and resumed the strange rocking and half-whispering.

"Sherlock?" John sat up and cupped his face. "Sherlock look at me." Sherlock looked at him, with a half dazed smile. John pulled the packed of pills out of his back pocket to read the instructions. The pills had all the side effects of the others, but required a higher dosage. "Maybe, you should take two." John muttered, half to himself. Sherlock was rocking back and fourth, smiling. "Or maybe not." Sherlock turned to him, a strange look in his eyes, he pushed him back and tried to climb on top of him. "Okay, Sherlock, stop."

"I…" Sherlock(? Avery?) grew forceful as he pushed John down. He felt like he wasn't in control of himself. The medicine was doing the opposite of what it was supposed to. "_Need _you." It was clear he meant sexually. His face was contorted yet somehow blank, as if he were fighting off another influence. "Stop me," he said strangely, as he fought against John who was pushing him to arm's length. Despite his current frailty, he was very strong and managed to rip a hole in John's shirt as his fingers scrambled to press him closer. "This isn't." His pupils were completely contracted as he grabbed at places other than John's arms—his fingernails caught the scab on John's neck and pulled on it, partially reopening the wound.

John winced in pain. "Stop it." Sherlock pushed his full weight against John's arms, causing them to fold, so he could get to his neck. He was licking at the wounds, giggling slightly. "Sherlock, get off!" John pushed him down on to the couch, pinning his arms down. "Not until you can stop hurting me." Sherlock was trying to move his face up to John's. "Stop it, please. Take another one of these, one isn't enough." He slipped one into his mouth and Sherlock swallowed it with a smile.

There was another frantic few moments of Sherlock/Avery/whatever the hell he was right now trying to get to John before the medicine kicked in just as John was beginning to lose the stamina to keep fighting him off. When it did, Sherlock went into a complete trance and just sat, his eyes wide for a while.

"Shower," he whispered before standing up to take one. John went into his room, cleaned and bandaged the freshly reopened wound, and got into bed, exhausted from their little fight. Two hours later, Sherlock slogged out of the bathroom, naked and sopping, and lay on the top of John's covers. It was pretty obvious that all Sherlock had done in the shower was stare and that now he seemed to have forgotten the importance of towels or clothing. It was as if he were comatose.

"Sherlock?" John leaned over him. "Sherlock, talk to me." He smiled again, but as himself. He didn't speak, but he put his arm out next to him, across the bed so that John would lie next to him. John pulled the covers over Sherlock's frail body and then hugged him, resting his head on his chest. Sherlock stroked through John's hair, but he still had the dazed expression on his face. "Sherlock, you don't have to take them anymore, if you don't want to." John whispered to him.

"Flen," Sherlock replied. It was about the most sense he could muster, and it took quite a bit of effort, even though it wasn't in any language he actually knew of. He was shaking significantly now from drug withdrawal, but before long fell asleep.

At half past two, he started mumbling in his sleep. "Help him." It woke John up and for an instant, he thought it was Avery talking about Sherlock until he realized Sherlock's eyes were closed. "Save him." Sherlock's shaking was worse now, partly from withdrawals and partly because he was terrified. "Don't let him die." There were tears streaming down Sherlock's face as he slept. "Don't let me have killed him."

"Help who?" John whispered. "Wake up," he shook him awake, gently. "Who have you killed?" He frowned, as Sherlock gasped. Without warning, he flung his arms around John and sobbed, loudly. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" John stroked the back of his head, trying to calm him down. Sherlock was shaking badly, clinging onto John for dear life.

"You're alive," Sherlock whispered repeatedly. He didn't release John for an hour, frail and shaking arms desperately holding John as tightly as he could. When he did stop, it was because he'd drifted off again, still shaking violently, but feeling a bit safer knowing he was in John's arms.

He was only asleep for fifteen minutes before he awoke with a yelp and tumbled out of bed. He instantly began crawling around on the floor, too weak to stand, but knocking things over in a search for the hidden drugs. "Mngwhere are they?" He knocked over the nightstand with the lamp on it, causing the lamp's base to crack somewhat before rummaging about inside anything he could reach—throwing everything to the floor but not finding what he wanted. He caught sight of the bed and dove for it, crawling underneath.

There was the sound of scratching followed by painful grunting, which, in turn, was followed by the sound of vomiting. Then there was silence. John stuck his head under the bed, and saw that Sherlock was curled up tightly, silently grunting, face tightly contorted—he looked like a terrified cat who's looked for the most hidden spot to hide.

"What's going on?" John reached under the bed and pulled him out as gently as he could. Sherlock was shivering and shaking, trying to bed for another fix. "Get onto the bed, and I'll give you a dose when this medication wears off, I'm not risking anything." John wrapped the covers around him when he got onto the bed, and he cradled him. "Shh, it's okay, I'm here." Sherlock was sniveling and nuzzling into John's shoulder. "You're going to be okay, I won't leave you."

"How much longer?" Sherlock's voice was gasping. John could feel his muscles contract every so often, particularly his abdomen. Sherlock was in pain. "John, it _hurts_. It hurts so much." He made a sort of glorp noise, shuddered and swallowed his vomit back down. "I can't think." His hands tightened around John's shirt. "I haven't slept right since I stopped the sleeping pills. I was doing fine on my own, before you came back and insisted I stop taking them." His eyes looked fevered and he was sweating. "I need this." He hated that he was so badly readdicted, but his fear of Avery was greater.

And speaking of Avery, he'd taken over and squeezed John's bum. It had been intended playfully, but he had a withdrawal-spasm and squeezed unpleasantly hard. "Damn withdrawals," he groaned shakily. "Nnnno," he said, Sherlock again, involuntarily curling with pain. "_Help me_, John."

"You have another.." He pulled the packet from his back pocket, "Another hour." Sherlock grimaced. "It won't be long." Sherlock was shaking more and more as time went on.

When the hour was up, John gave him what he needed. Sherlock was shaking far too much to inject himself, so John had to do it. He used the vein on the back of his knee again. "Better?"

Sherlock's shaking slowly subsided as his pupils expanded. "Thank you," he said, breathing hard. "Thank you." He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, one arm across his stomach. "My appointment with Dr. Hussey is at nine. I assume you'll be coming." His voice was distant because of the high, but it was obviously doing more to help him than the prescribed drugs had done. "Last night was uncalled for. I apologize." He sat up and blinked hard for a moment before plodding back to his room to get dressed. By the time he returned, the high had faded and his eyes were almost back to normal. "It was selfish of me to do this. To readdict myself. I didn't think of what it would do to you to have to watch me." He buttoned his jacket. "Being ready an hour or two early never hurts," he said with a hint of a smile.

"Talk to him about this." John muttered. "He needs to know." He sipped on the coffee he'd made himself and looked at him, seriously. "This has gone too far, really." Sherlock sighed and sat down, agreeing with him. "I can't watch you go through this anymore, Sherlock. It's hurting me."

"I'd planned to tell him." It was a sincere remark. Sherlock shrugged. "I _am _going to." He looked down. "The withdrawals will be painful, even if we slowly step down the dosages in favour of whatever Hussey thinks I need to be on. I'm open to changing this. I don't expect it will work, though." A little corner of Sherlock's mind told him he'd probably be on cocaine for the rest of his life and would eventually dissolve into something that wasn't even human any more. He shook that thought away as he bit into a slice of toast.

They took a cab to Hussey's office as they always did, and Sherlock had stared out of the window most of the trip, trying to figure out how to word his confession of being an addict. He was frowning as John paid the cabbie and they went inside the building.

John was left in the waiting room for an hour and a half before Sherlock emerged, trying to hide his emotional distress, but it was clear he'd been crying not long before. He didn't speak as he handed a prescription note to John and sat next to him in the waiting room. Hussey asked to speak to John privately.

"Did you know he was on high levels of cocaine or that his other personality is attempting reemergence?" Hussey was clearly worried. "I don't know how much he tells you."

"I'm aware. I actually wanted to ask you for some advice. He's refusing to go to rehab, I understand why. Is there any other way _I_ can help him?"  
>Hussey sunk down into his chair. "There is, indeed. But it won't be pretty. He'll have to come off it altogether. No taking down of dosages, no medications instead, just cold turkey."<br>"What about Avery, hm? What do you plan to do about that?" John was getting rather annoyed at him.  
>"I'm not sure. The medication didn't work, the surgery didn't work… Sherlock did mention the old fashioned medication that the therapist gave him. Try that." He clicked his pen and asked for the name, and John gave it.<br>"He didn't like that one, though. He could hear voices, I-"  
>"Doctor Watson, remember that you are a professional. Not where he is concerned, but all the same. He needs to get used to it, or he's going to lose himself. Just until we find something else, and it will take time."<br>"Fine." And with that, he had left the office.  
>"Come on, we're going home." John linked Sherlock and dragged him out of the building.<p>

"What did he say to you?" Sherlock's face was pale, and when John told him, he went even whiter. "I can't do it." His jaw clenched as they got into the cab and he was silent the whole way to the mattress store, and then only spoke with criticisms about the beds. His whole life was crashing down. He knew he was going to be in the worst pain he could ever imagine, both psychologically and physically. When they arrived at 221B, he spoke quietly. "I don't think I'll be able to do it. Yesterday, the pills that left me…" He rubbed his mouth. "For lack of a better term, comatose, it helped with the withdrawals. In a manner of speaking. I was still in pain, but less aware of it. It didn't register that all the pain I was feeling was my own." He stared at John, helplessly. "But if it's that or doing the same thing in hospital and having to deal with therapists and nurses, I'd rather have you as my doctor."

Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on John's shoulder. "When do we start?" He was quite plainly terrified.

"When your previous dose wears off, I think." John hugged him, seeing that he was terrified. "I've read up about it, and the effects that you had yesterday will last for two days. After that, you'll be quite hyperactive, and.. uh." John rolled his eyes. "You know." Sherlock didn't get it for a minute, but then he caught on. "Since it was made for that purpose. Avery won't be able to get through, because it's like he's been pushed back into a cell in the brain, if that makes sense. You'll be more hungry and thirsty, and you'll have the occasional dizzy spell." Sherlock nodded. "Because you're coming off another drug, however, it's going to have a bigger effect. You'll feel dizzy and thirsty more often, and you'll have the shakes for about three days. Are you ready?"

"No," Sherlock answered truthfully. "And Hussey said I can't take on any cases until the withdrawals have finished and there's no sign of Avery." He took a shuddering breath. "It's all gone, John. Everything but you." He sat down on the sofa, desperately trying not to dissolve into hysterics. "All I've ever had since Mycroft went to university has been my work, and now I don't even have that any more." His voice broke on the final two words. He swallowed, rubbing his head. "These last three months, I've lost everything. First my dignity, then my sanity, then my sacred memories, then I've nearly lost you, and now my work." He leaned on the arm of the sofa, exhausted. "And before too long, I'll lose my father and Uncle Louis. Mycroft's not speaking to me, and I have no idea where Mother is." His fists clenched. "This isn't like me. I shouldn't be like this. And the cocaine is wearing off now and all I can think of is how to get around you to get more."

"I'm staying, so don't worry about losing me. You'll get back to your work, if you'll let me help you." He sat down next to Sherlock and held onto his hand. "Please let me help you, Sherlock. I care about you, and even more than that, I love you. Seeing you in pain causes me pain. Mycroft will come around, and you can get in touch with your mother. I'm going to do everything I can for you." Sherlock looked at him, pained. "I promise you." Sherlock hugged him.

"Not Mother," Sherlock said. "She can't see this." His fingers were starting to shake. "It's starting," he said, meaning the withdrawals. "I don't know—I don't know how to ask this." He pulled out of the hug, trying to compose himself. "Will you take care of me physically? If my body takes more than two days to adjust—" He didn't want to think of himself like that, vegetative at best, having to be bathed and fed by someone else. "Of course you will, you're a doctor. You're my friend. You're…" Sherlock had never liked the term boyfriend. It was too normal, too official, too much not Sherlock. "Whatever I may ask in the grip of pain, you have to promise me you'll be strong. You have to promise you will allow yourself to stand by and watch. Don't let my desperation overwhelm you." He hoped John understood what he was saying. "Is it time? To take the pills?"

John looked at his watch. "Yeah." Sherlock grimaced at him. "I'm here, and I always will be." He smiled at him, and pulled the pills from his jacket. "Here." He passed him two. Sherlock swallowed them, and put his head in his hands. "It's gonna be fine. Now, shall we watch a film?" Sherlock sprawled on John like a cat whilst they sat through _Pirates of the Caribbean_ again. He was shaking like a small scared puppy.


	6. Visions of the Might Be Dead

Sherlock had been on the medication for about two days, and his shakes were getting worse each hour. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't give you anything, I don't even have any." He'd gotten rid of the drugs the day Sherlock had started his pills. Sherlock was begging him, at his feet, crying and shaking. "I'm sorry, I can't."

"I'm dying," Sherlock gasped. "I feel like I'm dying." He grabbed at John's ankles, doubled over in pain. "This is worse than Moriarty, worse than anything." His breathing was shaky, his face ashen, and his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. "At least give me my new pills so I don't have to feel it. Or knock me out. Or something, anything." His stomach spasmed. "Fffffff—" The swear word that was uncharacteristic but was going to come out of him anyway was interrupted by the third vomiting bout of the morning. "I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't do anything. There's only one thing. One thing. _Please_, John."

"I can't, Sherlock. I promised you, and I don't have any of it anyway. I wouldn't know where to get it and I wouldn't want to. You have to go through this, you put it in your body and now you're dealing with the effects. I'm sorry but that's the way it is." He pulled him onto the sofa and tried to calm him. "Listen, try and occupy yourself. You _need _to get through this, for yourself, for me."

"You promised you'd help me," Sherlock spat, knowing it was an unfair comment but too blinded by pain to care. "You promised." He writhed in pain, groaning, barely containing a scream. His eyes were desperate as he grabbed John's wrist so hard John could almost feel the blood vessels bursting. "Something. Anything. Even if it's just the pills. I'd rather be comatose than this." He vomited again, spraying himself and John (though mostly himself as he'd been on his back). "I can't." He started coughing violently, having obviously breathed some of the vomit.

"I am helping you, Sherlock. In the way that you need. I can't mix your medication, and I'm not punching you in the face. You need to deal with this, after all it's you who took it." Sherlock glared at him. "I'm sorry, but you _know_ I can't do anything more than what I'm doing." John was mopping the sick off both of them. "Go to bed." He tapped him on the shoulder.

Sherlock was gasping as he tumbled off the sofa, and tried to crawl to his room. John had to carry him most of the way (not hard given the weight loss), and flopped him into bed. He was still spasming violently, writhing in pain as his senses told him white-hot needles were jabbing every inch of his skin. It was five hours before he managed something that could be called sleep, but only out of exhaustion, and it was more of a blind mental retreat than the rest he needed. He was still moaning incessantly, still shaking, still tossing and turning.

His sense of day and night was completely thrown off. It was nearing dusk when he threw himself off the bed, aware it was time for his other, proper, medication, and started shouting for John. At least that would numb his mind enough to where the pain didn't feel like it was happening to him.

"Here you go." John gave him the pills and Sherlock flopped back onto the bed. "I'll leave you to it." Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him back, onto the bed. John slid his arms around him, he really was losing weight. "I'm sorry, I have to make you better." He kissed him on the cheek. "I hate seeing you like this, but I need to see you your normal self again." Sherlock turned his face to him and sighed.

"I was my normal self on the drugs, or had you forgotten that?" Sherlock had meant to snap far more viciously than he had, but his official medication was starting to take control and he felt himself slipping into that strange mental coma. Every time he'd taken it, the sensation lessened, but it still turned Avery's shouts (and more recently, screams) into half-heard overlapping whispers as the two minds were dangerously close to mixing. "I'm so tired, John," he moaned. "Make it stop."

"I can't, I can't give you sleeping pills and I'm not going to knock you out." John stroked through his hair. "If Avery loved you as much as me, he'd shut up and give you some peace. I know he can, he's just stubborn." Sherlock whimpered and buried his head in the curve of John's neck like a frightened child. "Shh, it's going to be okay." John patted him softly on the back whilst rocking him slightly.

"It's…not his speech, not like before." Sherlock's face was screwed up tightly in pain. "It's his thoughts. My thoughts and his thoughts, overlapping, like having two different songs, one in each ear." He put his hands to his head. "I can't make it stop." He shuddered. "On the medicine from Hussey, it's like that but the pain from the withdrawals is numb." He looked up at John. "God, I've been selfish. When was the last time you slept?"

"Two days ago." John sighed. "I need to put you before me, though. I'm worried about you." Sherlock shook his head and demanded that he slept, even if only for a few hours. John yawned and snuggled into Sherlock's chest, and slowly dropped off to sleep.

His dreams were strange and eerie. Probably due to the lack of sleep. They cause him to fidget and scream in his sleep, making Sherlock freak out a little.

When John awoke, there was no sign of Sherlock. Not in his room, not in John's room, not even in Mrs. Hudson's flat. John began to panic and picked up his phone to call Lestrade in case Avery had tried to run away (again). He had two voicemails.

He listened to the first one, and instantly recognized it was the voice of Claire Renoir, and it was obvious she'd been crying.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. Sherlock is not answering his telephone. I think he is working. Uh. When you can, please tell him that Uncle Louis passed away in the night. It was peaceful. I thought he should know. Please tell him to call me."

John lowered his hand slightly, remembering the kindly older man, but the next voicemail made his blood boil.

"Hello, Johnny-boy." It was Moriarty. "I hope you slept well—of course you did, I helped. Just calling to let you know that I'll be borrowing Sherlock for a while to help me in an experiment. Until you find him, in fact." Moriarty laughed. "And in case you think I don't actually have him, say hello, Sherlock!" A long string of cursing and violent threats greeted John's ears, and it was plain that Avery was in control of Sherlock's body. "Now, now, Sherlock, no need to be so crude. One other thing. If you contact anyone else about this, anyone at all, I'll make sure to make him die a very painful death. You know I'll know if you do. Ta!" The line clicked shut.

John sat down on the bed. What would Sherlock do in this situation? He'd listen for any little clue. He listened to the clip again. There was a quiet clicking in the background, like links in a chain smacking together. John thought deeply for about half an hour about where there would be chains. _You need me right now, Johnny.  
><em>John wanted to rip his eyes out, that voice, that horrid, vile voice wanted to help him.  
><em>Think about animals. The sort of places they want to keep animals chained up. Dog pounds, maybe even some stables.<br>_John called the number back.

"Hello, Johnny boy!" The voice at the other end at the phone sang. "Worked anything out? Wait, don't tell me, surprise me."  
>The line cut out, and he was left standing with the phone in his hand, mouth wide open.<p>

He texted Sherlock's phone, without much hope of him receiving it.

_To:Sherlock  
>I'm going to find you. I love you. -J x <em>

Sherlock's phone buzzed from Sherlock's bedside table. He wasn't going to see that text before John came to his rescue.

Sherlock noticed three things simultaneously. One, that he was terrified. Whatever had happened since Moriarty climbed through the window made even Avery, a serial killer, scared out of his wits. Two, that he was in pain. His medicine was wearing off and the withdrawals started to bite harder. Three, that he was in a hexagonal room with no windows, one door, a toilet, and a camera. Laboratory or prison. It could be either.

"What…what's going on?" Sherlock tried to sit up, but had to settle for leaning against the wall.

"You disappoint me, Sherlock." Moriarty was toying with him. Sherlock felt Avery surge forward but not quite managing to surface beyond a corner of his mind screaming violently. "Isn't it obvious? You're my latest toy. A lab rat. Until John finds you, at any rate, which, going by his previous record, won't be for ten days at least. And this time, he won't even have help. Ooh, this is going to be _fun_!"

Sherlock's head knocked against the wall as he fought the urge to curl up out of sheer fright for what was going to happen.

_I could be wrong, of course. _John sighed, and pulled on his coat. _You have many options. Like I said, a pound, some stables, and then there's prisons and even old museums. They like to keep all the original pieces of the buildings. You'll need to move fast, though._

Before he knew it, he was out in the street. _I'd say museum first, maybe the one near the docks._ John nodded, and walked towards Jolston Street.

_ToMoriarty  
>I know you'll get this, even if you don't reply. I'm already starting the search, and when I find you, I'm going to make you regret this.<em>

_-John Watson. _

"Ooh, he's a feisty one, isn't he?" Moriarty laughed over the intercom, causing Sherlock to jump.

"What have you done with John?" It was a demand rather than a casual inquiry.

"Oh, don't worry, nothing yet."

Sherlock stood and tried to charge at the camera menacingly, but he only managed to fall down. His inner ear was screaming that no direction was up. _Poison? Or just withdrawals?_

"No, Sherlock, don't hurt yourself," Moriarty's singsong voice mocked.

"Ngh," Sherlock moaned as he rolled onto his back. Bright lights came on, blinding him and causing his optic nerve to feel like it was being stabbed with hot pokers. He yelped.

"Didn't know you were so sensitive." There was a hint of disappointment in his voice before it returned with double the mirth. "Ah! But that's right! Cocaine withdrawals and you haven't had your other medicine today…oh, poor Sherlock, poor, poor Sherlock."

_kill him torture him make him bleed make him pay Moriarty must pay why couldn't he have just stayed dead I'll take him by the throat and pour acid in his eyes and then I'll make him swallow a bomb that will detonate in three hours scattering his miserable guts all over the walls and I'll make Moran watch oh yes please and then I'll make Moran eat what's left of Moriarty raw and without silverware and if he vomits it back up again I'll shove his face in it until he eats every last morsel_

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped, clapping his hands to his head, half-clawing at his ears. "Stop it, shut up, just stop it." It wasn't just Avery's thoughts starting to overlap his own, it was the images in his mind as well.

"Hallucinating already? That's not meant to happen until day seven…oh, but your split personality! Oh, this is too magnificent for words!" Sherlock could tell Moriarty was on the verge of jumping up and down in his excitement.

"D-day seven?" Sherlock dove into his mind palace as best he could, cross-referencing the terms _day seven _and _hallucinations_, but Avery's violent fantasies were making it hard and it was going to take far longer than usual to find the information he needed.

Five hours, eleven buildings and no luck.

_To:Moriarty_

_I know you love riddles, so give me one._

_-John Watson._

He felt sick with the thought of asking for help, but he couldn't think of anything else. _You could try the state prison, I'm sure they'd looooove to help._ The voice laughed. "He won't be there." John muttered, knowing that it wasn't possible. "It has to be somewhere abandoned." _If you say so, Johnnyboy. _

Sherlock couldn't find the answer after two hours of mental digging. Avery's overlapping thoughts were too powerful to allow him to concentrate, and to his horror, he found himself feeling a bit of agreement at Avery's horrible ideas.

"Ooh, look what we found!" The door opened and two men entered.

"Sherlock!" _He looks like John, is he John? Yes, he has to be John. (No, something's not right, that isn't John.) Of course it's John, look at him. (Really look.) I am looking. It's John._ The man who may or may not have been John ran over and embraced Sherlock, who returned it. "Sorry I couldn't break you out." The other man pulled him away from Sherlock.

"Oh, Rowland?" Moriarty's voice sang out the name and Sherlock and might-be-John turned to the speaker grille as if to get a good look at Moriarty. "Shoot Doctor Watson."

"What?" Might-be-John _(yes, it is John!) _turned to the soldier just in time to have his face blown to smithereens by a high-powered pistol. The blood splatter from the exit wound covered both the wall and Sherlock, the bullet itself lodging in the wall. Sherlock's vision swayed in and out of darkness and he registered the soldier (_Rowland_, he reminded himself) pulling John's body away. Then he blacked out and Avery was in command, just as the door shut.

"You bastards! You fucking bastards! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Avery clawed at the wall and the door long after his hands had started bleeding, long after his voice had completely gone, and kept going, tears streaming down his face, both his blood and might-be-John's all over him, trying to shout through his broken voice, until he collapsed with exhaustion ten hours later.

And it was only then that John received the next text from Moriarty:

_Whether you see it as pet store or zoo, there's a vicious animal here for you.  
>-Moriarty<br>PS. I'm disappointed. I'd have thought you'd have picked something up from him. Oh, well._

_Ah. Well it's the zoo. Although, I didn't think he'd pull that card. Well played._ John sucked in his breath, sharp. He'd been inside the back of the zoo before, when he was a child. It had long grey hallways and grey rooms, not many windows, and dusty floors.

_To:Moriarty  
>I'm making my first move, check.<em>

_-John Watson_

He smiled to himself. _You can do this, John._

"He really is quite sweet," Moriarty sneered playfully over the intercom. Sherlock was on the verge of total collapse, alternating between voiceless screaming and sobbing as he ran his bleeding hands along the floor where might-be-John's blood smeared toward the door.

In order to be a check, John, one must actually be threatening the king.  
>Moriarty<p>

Sherlock's eyes closed for sleep, but a sudden cacophony of what sounded like twenty themes to children's shows burst into his hearing at quite a loud volume. He sat up, dizzy, and faced the camera.

He stared at it, trying to figure out what to say. He opened his mouth, and just as he did, a small vent from the ceiling opened and chicken nuggets rained down on him. He stared at them.

"Oh, no, no, they're not poisoned. Wouldn't want you dying before I'm done with you."

Sherlock tried to shoot back a snide remark, but not only could he not think of one, he couldn't have put voice to it anyway. Instead, he decided he was going to eat the offering.

"Now…where's that lovely brother of yours?"

"No," Sherlock painfully whispered in place of speaking. "Not Mycroft."

"What's that? You're worried about him?" Moriarty mock-gasped. "I'm touched. I didn't think you cared."

Sherlock's mind was worryingly empty. Both he and Avery (whose thoughts he could now clearly hear) were only thinking at a base minimum level. He threw a handful of nuggets at the camera. All he could think of was how Mycroft was now his only reason for living.

He was searching for anything to give away Sherlock's whereabouts. His phone chimed, almost arrogantly.

Are you going to think, or are you going to be boring, as usual? I've not made it obvious, because that'd be NO fun! The game is on, darling.- Moriarty.

John walked along, his gun out. There were little signs on each door, like some sort of game show. He'd already worked it out, one wrong move and a gunman would have him down.

_One more hint. I know you want to._

_-John Watson._

He could hear laughter, but from above.. like some sort of telecom.

Another gunshot and Mycroft (how could it not have been Mycroft? It looked like him, it acted like him, but something was wrong but yes it was Mycroft) was dead now, too.

"Whhh?" It was the only sound Sherlock could wrangle out of his throat as he fought unconsciousness. Bloody chicken nuggets were scattered on the floor, stained crimson with the blood of might-have-been-Mycroft. When Moriarty's voice came, it was distant, foreign, not quite reaching Sherlock's mind, and Avery had long since ceased to think much of anything apart from the occasional sporadic violent image.

"I was getting bored. You're my favourite playmate, and I missed all the good times we'd had together."

_Stop HOUNDing me.  
>Moriarty<em>

That violent blare of sudden noise caused Sherlock to instinctually try to scream at it, but all he succeeded in doing was to make a horrible non-sound. He was dehydrated and it felt like a hangover, the bright lights and sudden noises assaulting him. He started to cry again, exhausted and in pain, even as the withdrawal symptoms were starting to fade throughout the day/night/he had no way of telling when it was. Then a horrible realization hit him with the third blare of sound—there was no one who would be coming to save him.

Blazing gunshots were the hint. John slowly walked to the room, hand hovering over the handle, listening.

_I'm here. Now just give him over. Don't do anything to hurt me, or him._

_-John Watson_

John's breath was shaky, as he waited for a reply. He could hear Sherlock's screams of agony from inside.

_You're right, sweetie. This game might be over __today__, but it's not over on the whole. It's __just__ beginning. You'll be seeing me very soon, up close and __very __personal._

_-Moriarty _

He clicked the door open, and saw mounds and mounds of chicken nuggets. "What the fuck…" Then he saw Sherlock whimpering, covered in blood. "Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me? Sherlock!" He looked up and gasped, his eyes wide and his mouth wide open. "I'm here, I told you I'll never let you down." He hoisted him up.

"You're dead." Sherlock's voice was still completely ruined, but he mouthed the words before losing consciousness, his eyes rolling backward and a small sigh of pain escaping his lips.

Something fell from the ceiling just as John started to lift Sherlock to take him out of this horrible place and landed on top of the chicken nuggets. It was a DVD, labelled _My Gift to You, Doctor Watson_. A label on the inside of the case said "How Sherlock Holmes Lost His Mind, narrated by Richard Brook". It was obviously all the surveillance footage from Sherlock's imprisonment. John picked up the DVD and stuck it clumsily in his pockets before hoisting Sherlock over his shoulder. This was a psychological battlefield and he wasn't about to leave the rest of his two-man battalion behind.

When they got back to Baker street, John put Sherlock into his bed, grabbing Hamish from Sherlock's room, and tucking him in. Sherlock was muttering in his sleep.

He put the DVD in and watched it. First somebody who looked like him getting shot, and then Mycroft. Sherlock's strangled sobs were filling the room. He was screaming for John over and over again, begging Moriarty to stop. He could hear 'Richard Brooke' voicing over the DVD, but he didn't listen to what he was saying.

He ran into his bedroom and got in the bed with Sherlock, clinging to him, crying. "I'm so fucking sorry, I love you, please don't go mad, please, I need you." He was whispering this in his ear, but every so often, he'd release a small sob, and make him jump. "Please, please."

Sherlock's eyes opened. They were staring, completely unseeing. He seemed to register that there was someone, but his mind was completely empty as to an explanation. And he was crying.

John's phone rang. It was Mycroft.

"John, I'm coming over. An old family friend has passed away and Sherlock was far closer to him than I was. I'm worried. He's not been answering his phone. Don't protest. I'm already on Baker Street. My car's about to stop."

And still Sherlock stared, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

Mycroft came in, and John stopped him.  
>"Moriarty got him. He set something up so it looked like we both got killed, he's gone. He's not listening to me, he can't listen to me." Mycroft pushed him out of the way and went into the room.<br>"Sherlock, Sherlock it's Mycroft. Come to your senses." He slapped Sherlock hard in the face. "Come on."

Sherlock showed no reaction at all, not even flinching. Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed back any emotion. "Sherlock, please. I know you're still in there somewhere. We're here. We're alive. Both John and I." He took his brother's hands and put one on his own wrist and the other on John's. "Feel our pulses. We're not dead."

Sherlock still did not react beyond his own tears.

"Vegetative states caused by psychogenic trauma have been known to occur," Mycroft said softly. "It's as if the mind runs away and leaves nothing in its place." He rubbed his face. "Don't do this to me, brother." His voice was starting to shake. He cleared his throat and turned to John. "I trust your medical capabilities as caretaker. I am not certain I'd trust him to any sort of facility, so perhaps it would be best if he stays here." He let go of Sherlock's hand and stood back up. "I would appreciate if you would show me this footage. It could help me understand what's happened to him."

John clicked play on the player, and went back into Sherlock. Mycroft was muttering obscenities from the other room.  
>He leaned over him and looked into his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm here. I love you." He kissed him on the forehead.<br>He went back into the living room. "Anything?" Mycroft turned around, his face flushed with anger.  
>"Yes." He muttered, clenching his fists.<p>

Mycroft raised one eyebrow quizzically, desperately trying to stick to the façade of Ice Man that he'd built over so long. But it was clear that he was boiling. "I will of course insist that there are blood tests. He may have been drugged or infected with something, particularly because he came into contact with two unknown men's blood while he himself had open wounds." He practically slammed the door on his way into Sherlock's room. He sat beside his younger brother and took him by the hands. "I…I have no idea whether or not you can hear me. I hope that you can, though there's nothing to support that theory." He swallowed. "I know that I said that caring is not an advantage. But, Sherlock, I—" Mycroft broke off, trying to hold back tears at Sherlock's utterly blank expression. "I love you, Sherlock." He reached in and lightly kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I have to leave for the evening, Sherlock. I'll be back at noon tomorrow. Precisely." Mycroft stood and wiped his tear-filled eyes before leaving the room.

"I'm coming back tomorrow," he said to John. "Take care of him."

He left, and John slumped onto the bed. "Sherlock, I know you can hear me…" He whispered. "I'm not sleeping until I fall down with exhaustion. This is my fault, all my fault. You can't do anything because of me. When you're better, I'll leave if that's what you want. I'll go, and you'll never see me again. It's going to hurt me so much, but it won't matter because you'll be safe. I love you and I would risk my happiness and life for you."  
>A single tear slid from Sherlock's eye, but nothing else changed. John clung onto him, like he was the only important thing in the world. And he was, to John.<p>

It took three hours, but finally Sherlock fell asleep. He twitched and probably would have moaned if his voice hadn't been shot to hell, his eyes moving rapidly, clearly in a nightmare.

A text came in from Mycroft as the dawn broke.

I'm bringing Dr. Hussey with me later. He needs to see this.  
>Mycroft Holmes<p>

Sherlock's eyes opened a few seconds before the ringer went off. His hand clenched around Hamish's arm gently, but aside from that, his mind was still gone as the light of the early morning struck him in the eyes. His stomach growled. It was then that John realized Sherlock was still wearing the same clothes, the wounds on his hands that Avery's rage had inflicted yet to be cleaned, and the blood of three men covering him.

"God, I'm so sorry." John jumped up. "Shock." He carried him to the bathroom and ran him a bath. He sat him up in the bath and cleaned the blood off, paying special attention to the wounds. Sherlock gazed off into the distance, and winced occasionally. When he was clean, he lifted him out and wrapped a towel around him, and dried his wounds. He disinfected them and put gauze on them.

When Sherlock was dressed and back in bed, (Changed sheets due to the blood) John looked for some way to feed Sherlock. Luckily, Mycroft knocked on the flat door. "How is he?" He looked grim today, like he hadn't slept at all.  
>"He's the same. I need to feed him but I don't have the equipment, if I'm going to look after him, I'm going to need some hospital stuff." Mycroft nodded.<p>

"I'll have some sent around." Mycroft stepped inside, Doctor Hussey not far behind. Mycroft gently showed the psychiatrist/neurologist to Sherlock's room, where he examined Sherlock closely and worriedly.

"I've never actually seen a psychogenic-trauma vegetative state before." Hussey took a deep breath. "I really recommend putting him in a care facility. There's no telling how long—"

"No," said Mycroft sternly. "He stays here. John is a perfectly qualified physician." Hussey nodded.

"If you insist." Mycroft took him out of the room and showed him the surveillance footage. "My God. No wonder." Even Hussey's hands were shaking as he wiped his glasses. "Why would anyone do that?"

"Because James Moriarty is insane."

Hussey returned to Sherlock's bedside. "I think it could do him good to have a therapy pet, preferably a cat, unless he's allergic. A few hospitals have them, and those with people in this state tend to be more stable, even recover a little bit sooner. He's not allergic, is he?"

"No. We had one when we were children." Mycroft had a sort of bittersweet look on his face, remembering their childhood cat. "I'll acquire one tomorrow, John, and have it sent over. I'm sure it would do my brother good. He really cared for our other cat."

"What do we do? We just wait until he comes out of this? And what then? What about Moriarty?" For once, Mycroft didn't have an answer. "You know, there was something that could help you, but you have to trust your brother for it to work." Mycroft sat down next to Sherlock and ran his finger over the length of Sherlock's nose. "Of course I trust my brother, John."  
>"Richard Brook." John swallowed nervously. "He never mentioned him to you because he didn't think you could help, but Richard Brook is Moriarty's alter ego, I guess. The identity he used to ruin Sherlock the first time around."<br>Mycroft looked up at him, confused. "He's still using that?"  
>"You don't know something for once." John smiled. "Try your best to get to him, otherwise your brothers mind is going to disappear."<p>

"Of course I will," said Mycroft coldly. "It was my fault before, and I won't let it happen again." He picked up his umbrella and phone and instantly called someone—John had no idea who. It was clear that in the interests of decorum, Mycroft had gone easy on Moriarty last time and that it was a mistake not to be repeated. It seemed like both Holmes brothers had violent demons as Mycroft left the flat, and John would hate to be Moriarty about now.

Doctor Hussey seemed frightened of Mycroft, just a little, and cleared his throat. "I'm afraid we do have to wait for him to recover on his own. He might recover tomorrow, he might not recover for years. It's always the ones who seem the strongest that are the most fragile, though I had no idea he was that fragile. I wish I had known." He examined Sherlock's nonreactions to light and sound and sighed. "There's no way of knowing how long this will last. I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. I'm sure that, given the circumstances, he wouldn't mind breaking confidentiality. There are only three things he's ever talked about in his sessions. His own worry about his other personality, his father's neglect, and how much he wishes he could love you." He put his hand on John's shoulder. "I'll be back on Thursday to see how he's getting on."

When they left, John sat down in the living room, not able to stay in the same room as Sherlock after the visit. He needed a break, but then decided it wasn't the best idea because anything could happen. He pulled his chair into the bedroom and sat, staring at him.

Mrs Hudson came up, saying that there were loads of packages near the door for him; the hospital equipment. When it was set up, John put a drip in Sherlock's arm, giving him all the nutrients he was lacking. Sherlock was sighing and wincing, but never moaning. "Please be okay." John kissed him on the nose and sat back in his chair, watching silently. His phone buzzed.

I'll be seeing you soon, darling. -Moriarty xxx

John threw the phone across the room in a rage.

Sherlock seemed to register the stimulus. This was unusual for someone in his condition, though given the fact that Sherlock was Sherlock, it wasn't too unexpected. He reacted by turning his eyes toward where the phone had hit the wall, as if he noticed the sound. He also gasped slightly, as if frightened.

"Aw, the poor dear," Mrs. Hudson said at the threshold. She was obviously on the verge of tears. "I love him like he was my own son, you know." She sat on the bed next to Sherlock and hugged him. "Please be alright, Sherlock. I'll bring you whatever you need." She didn't even try to conceal her tears as she rocked him back and forth like a mother would calm her child after a nightmare. Sherlock fell asleep.

John watched over him, never leaving his side. This was torture; he didn't even have Avery to talk to. He missed seeing his smile, and hearing his soft cries when he slept.

He decided to text Moriarty.

To:Moriarty

Yes you will be seeing me soon, but not in the way you want.

I'll be standing over you whilst you're dying, with a smile across my face.

Mark my words.

-John Watson

He'd managed to piece his phone back together after he'd launched it across the room. Sherlock's eyes were open, so John immediately spoke to him.  
>"Do you want me to read to you?" He asked, sheepishly. He pulled out the book that Sherlock had been reading- <em>'The wee free men'<em> by Terry Pratchett, and started reading it to him, softly. Sherlock didn't sigh or close his eyes, so John assumed that he didn't mind it at all.

Sherlock's left hand closed and reopened several times as it had when he'd been suffering from cocaine cravings. He was still in withdrawals, but the pain was lessening by the hour, though of course John had no way of knowing that. Sherlock stared at John as he read, but whether or not he could hear him was unknown.

There was a light knock on the door and Mycroft entered with a cat carrier. At the back of it was a fluffy Ragdoll, a little frightened at its new surroundings, but equally curious. "His name is Louis," Mycroft said. "After our friend in France." He didn't add that Louis had recently died, just in case Sherlock could hear. He didn't need that trauma added to his state. "Mrs. Hudson is setting up the litter box." He handed John a _Cats for Dummies_ book, shut the door behind him, and opened the carrier. Louis didn't come out from the back of the cage. "Give him time. He'll come out eventually. You have to be patient with cats." Mycroft smiled. "It's never occurred to me before how much like a cat my brother is. Stubborn, impatient, determined to do things his way." Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's hand. "Thank you, John, for taking care of him. You'll never know how much this means to me."

"I'm doing this because I love him." John smiled, and thanked Mycroft. "So, um. Anything I need to know about looking after a cat? I never had pets when I was younger." Mycroft sighed and sat down in the chair.  
>"Feed him twice a day with the food I've left in bags in the Living room. Have a litter box in most rooms; that way you won't have a problem. Take him to the vets every month."<br>John nodded. "Right, okay." The cat had slunk out of the cage, and was now sitting next to Sherlock. "I can tell who this cat is going to like more." He smiled.

Sherlock also smiled gently as Louis sat by him. It was as if the cat was checking to see if Sherlock was alright. "Cats have a way of telling when a person is ill," Mycroft said softly. "When Sherlock had the flu as a child, our cat would stay by him the whole time." Mycroft gently reached out a hand to stroke Louis, but it only frightened the cat, sending him running back under the bed. "Ah, well." He stood, catching sight of the book John had been reading to Sherlock. "A bit of an unusual choice. Perhaps it's for the best. When he's poorly, he finds strange comfort in children's tales. His favourites were _The Hobbit_ and _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_." Mycroft smiled sadly. "Even up until his university days. He enjoyed me rereading the whole of the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy to him when he was in drug rehabilitation, though he'd never say it." He sighed, weary. "Would you like some tea, John?"

"I have those books somewhere. I'll read them to him, but I doubt I'll get to finish them, he's been moving his hand today." Mycroft smiled and looked over at Sherlock.  
>"He usually comes out of sickness quickly." The cat had reemerged from under the bed, and it jumped onto Sherlock's legs, purring.<br>"Oh and yes to the tea please." John realized he had ignored Mycroft's question. He smiled, got up, and went into the kitchen. John sat on the bed, and stroked Sherlock's hair, trying not to scare the cat.

Sherlock swallowed. He was still staring at John's chair, his left hand still absently squeezing as if pumping a stress ball. His body wanted cocaine and it wanted it now, though of course no one was going to oblige.

"Perhaps it's better like this, right now," Mycroft said as if reading Sherlock's empty mind. "I was there for him, the last time he went through withdrawals, and the agony…it was horrible to watch." He handed John his tea. "As I understand it, he'd been injecting himself three times his old rate. I've yet to fully grasp why." He took a sip, sitting in John's chair, right in Sherlock's vision. Sherlock began to cry. "Shh, dear brother. We're here." Mycroft put his free hand on Sherlock's foot, causing Louis to tense as if the cat were saying _This is my human, but I will permit you to touch him because you haven't hurt him._ "We're here."

"Mycroft, I'm scared. I'm not going to deny it. Do you think he'll get better?" Mycroft tutted with a nod.  
>"Of course. He's my brother, and he's far too stubborn to let this beat him." He brushed his hand over Sherlock's legs.<br>John pulled the chair over to the bed and sat next to the top of Sherlock, stroking his hair and face. Louis crawled up beside Sherlock, and rubbed his face against John's hand with a small squeak. "Hello, Louis." John smiled, warmly.

Louis curled up beside Sherlock's head, purring, as if trying to reassure John that he was going to protect Sherlock. The sound of the purring was soothing and before long, Sherlock had fallen asleep, peacefully.

Mycroft smiled and checked his watch. "I have to be leaving now. Get some rest, Doctor Watson. I doubt he'll be up for a while and you needn't worry about Moriarty or his men coming for Sherlock again. I have the place well-guarded." He stood, petted Louis, placed his hand on Sherlock's head and left.

John nodded with agreement, but didn't sleep at all. Instead, he carried on reading to Sherlock, holding his moving hand. Sherlock just blinked at him, opening his mouth to speak. His body was paralyzed and John could tell he wanted to speak, wanted to move, and it was painful to see that he couldn't.  
>"You're going to get better." John murmured, teary. "Believe me."<p>

"Ah." John couldn't tell if it was a mindless grunt or if Sherlock was actually recovering. Louis certainly showed his affections by sniffing Sherlock's open mouth, as if wondering where the strange sound had come from.

This went on for several days. Sometimes it would look like Sherlock was on the verge of recovery but an hour later, the glimmer was gone. Neither Louis nor John left Sherlock's side, John refusing to sleep, Mycroft encouraging him to. Doctor Hussey had come around twice, running basic neurological tests and each time leaving, his words full of hope but his eyes full of despair.

Sherlock was just skin and bones now. His ribs were easily counted, the skin stretched tight over his skull making him look like some grotesque half-decayed skeleton. His hand had long since stopped clenching and unclenching out of a craving for cocaine, and he occasionally smiled, though nothing lasts forever and soon he was silent and blank again.

But then finally, one week and three days after he was brought back traumatized, Sherlock rose from his bed, not registering John who had passed out from exhaustion, and staggered to the kitchen, returning with a sandwich.

He saw John sleeping in his bed and broke into the most horrible, least controlled sobbing imaginable, as if for once he had no one to hide his pain from. He fell to the ground, and the only word he could form was "Why?"

John grunted with confusion and looked up. "What on earth are you doing up?" He pulled him back onto the bed and pulled the covers over him with a smile. "Come on, don't cry. What's wrong?" He was trying to calm him down whilst Louis hissed at John as if this was his fault. Sherlock sobbed louder when John hugged him. "Tell me what's wrong?" Before Sherlock could answer, Mycroft was in the doorway.  
>"I had my security listen out for him, not to mention the cameras in the room, I like to keep track. Sherlock, what's wrong?" He tutted and put his head to the side, like a patronising aunt or grandma.<p>

"Why?" Sherlock started to scream through his sobs, releasing enough pain to be concerned about people who didn't live life with emotional barriers. "Why must my mind do this to me? You're dead, both of you, and yet I can't let go." He took a shuddering breath, as if trying to muster up the courage to speak. "It was bad enough when I was only hallucinating Avery. Why in God's name—?" His sobbing doubled as Mycroft put a comforting hand on his shoulder and only eased once Louis nudged him in the chin as if to say _Please be alright. I like you, human_.

**Sherlock's blog:**

I've been in a nightmare. I don't know how long. I've lost so much. I remember quite clearly that torture chamber. John was killed right in front of me and for nothing more than Moriarty's sick pleasure. It's nearly impossible to recover from that, which of course, Moriarty knows. Then he killed Mycroft as well. Every sense told me that it was they who were murdered. Everything. They're gone.

The last thing I remember is someone lifting me, holding me in their arms. I thought it was John. I don't believe in ghosts or angels, but that's almost enough to make me want to.

I always saw him as a guardian angel after what he did during what he called A Study in Pink. He always protected me, even when I thought I didn't want it. I misused him, I manipulated him, and I never once loved him. I didn't deserve him, but he stayed with me anyway. I don't know what I'd give to have him holding me, angelic wings spread wide, one last time.

And Mycroft. I never thanked him for all he did for me. He was patient with me. Unlike our parents, he paid attention to me. There were times when I regretted it, times when I hated it, but now that he's dead, I realize just how cut off I feel. As if I'd been hanging from a tree by a thin thread and now it's been cut and I am only just able to keep from falling.

Losing one of them, I might have been able to handle. But not both. The only thing keeping me afloat is the fact that I want to be the one to personally kill Moriarty.

I'm seeing John-and Mycroft-with the clarity I'd seen Avery. If I didn't know they were dead, I'd think it were real. So vivid. Touch, smell, vision, even his little quirks are all there. It's torture. Why is my mind doing this?

I need something to drown out this pain, these hallucinations, but I just quit the cocaine, the one thing I found to make my hallucinations stop, and the only reason I've not gone back to it is that I promised John I wouldn't. I owe it to his memory to keep that promise.

**John:**

We're not dead, Sherlock.  
>It'd be impossible for me to blog, otherwise.<br>_I'm here,_ please listen to us. We're going to look after you, I promise you that.

Me and your brother will never leave you again, it's causing you too much pain.

"We're not dead, brother." Mycroft soothed. "It's Moriarty, he's trying to make you lose your mind." John stayed quiet, holding onto Sherlock whilst he sobbed. "We even have a DVD, but we shan't show you." Mycroft reached out his hand to pat his brother on the shoulder.  
>"We're here, we're not going anywhere." John whispered as he rocked him back and fourth. Louis crawled in between them, as if he wanted to be protected.<p>

Sherlock gulped noisily. In his mind, there were four people in the room—Avery was there, too, holding Sherlock's hands, and with such vivid clarity that it really was as though he were real. And that's what made it worse. Sherlock couldn't tell that John and Mycroft weren't figments of his own grief-stricken imagination. To him, the only thing real was Louis because he hadn't been there before and he had no reason to suppose he was dead.

He sobbed for hours, until day became night and his throat was once again raw. After that he cried quietly well into the night, eventually falling asleep. Mycroft whispered to John. "I've never seen him this distraught." He was clearly very frightened for his brother and fighting back his own tears. "Never."

"I have, but not like this." Mycroft nodded, and explained how he had to leave, clearly wanting to get away to think.  
>"Of course, I'll come back. I need to um- I'll be back to see him. And you." He patted John on the shoulder, kissed Sherlock on the top of the head, and left.<p>

"Sherlock," John whispered, in case he was asleep. He sniffed, and grunted. "Never mind." He climbed into the bed next to him, and pulled him close. Louis curled up on their feet, purring softly. Sherlock muttered, pained in his sleep, clutching onto John, waking him up, but he didn't mind. At least he knew he was there, even if he thought he wasn't real.

When the morning came, Sherlock rose, keeping his eyes shut to block out his so-imagined hallucinations until he reached the living room. When he saw that John wasn't there, he sighed, half-sadly, half-relieved. He put food in Louis's dish, made himself eggs and toast, and ate it silently, feeling certain that he'd got control of himself.

The correct thing to do, he decided, was to compose in their memory as he'd done for Irene Adler. She hadn't meant as much to him as John or Mycroft, but he had felt a connection to her. He put his plate in the sink—_John's going to shout but no he won't because he'll never shout again not at toes in the fridge nor at fingers in the butter nor eyeballs in the microwave because he's gone forever_—and washed it before crossing to his violin at the window.

He rested it on his shoulder. He was going to play from his heart and commit the notes to memory first before putting them on paper. His first long note started out strong, a soaring_ this is yours, John_ but soon the stroke grew weaker and then stuttered—_this is the violin he gave me because my father broke the other one and only John and Mycroft ever stood up to him_—before faltering utterly. Sherlock sank into his chair, fighting the hysteria again. Louis rubbed his ankles. "You understand, don't you?" Sherlock scratched behind the cat's ears. "You know what it's like to be parted from someone who kept you safe. We're kindred spirits, you and I." He cautiously lifted Louis into his lap, and the cat did not object. After a few moments, Sherlock stood and gazed sadly at his violin before shutting it away in the case it hadn't seen since it was purchased.

John came through the door, arm laden with shopping bags. "Sherlock," He groaned, as the bags weighed him down. "Give me a hand." Sherlock looked around and sighed. "Listen, I'm not dead. He's messing with your mind, trust me." He frowned and him, and carried on with what he was doing. "Please." John sighed. Sherlock came over to him, looking his deep in the eyes, his own watering. He pulled John in for an embrace, checking if he was real. John hugged him tightly, breathing on his neck. This still wasn't enough. Tears were streaming from Sherlock's face as he pulled away. He sat in his chair with Louis, stroking him, ignoring John.

John walked around the front of the chair and sat in front of Sherlock. "Listen to me. I am not dead. A dead person wouldn't be able to do this." He leaned up and kissed Sherlock lightly, causing him to sob. "Please trust me, I'm not dead!"

"How can I trust my own senses?" Sherlock practically snapped. "You're just as real as Avery. Every sense is telling me that you're actually there, but I saw you killed. Your blood on my face was hot. You greeted me when you saw me, before he—" Sherlock turned away. "One set of sensory inputs was a lie. I'm strongly inclined to believe it's this one." He caught sight of the photograph on the mantle of himself and John and in a violent rage, picked it up and threw it at John, who barely dodged in time. It smashed against the wall, the glass in the frame shattering as Sherlock sank to his knees, barely restraining another sobbing fit.

**Sherlock's blog:**

I don't know how to deal with grief.

I've never felt it before. And my own mind has turned against me, conjuring hyper-real images of my…of the people I cared about most.

I feel the need to run away. It hurts. Like withdrawals. Well, the psychological effects of them, at any rate.

But I think it's worse for Avery. He hasn't tried to come out and all I see of him is the distant wisp of a man, made too thin by bedridden illness, mind plagued by emotional turmoil. He hasn't so much as formed a cigarette. I don't understand how I can see him. Any of them. But here they are, surrounding me, three visions that could be reality if I didn't find all evidence to the contrary.

All I have is Mrs. Hudson.

I'm not the man I was. I'm not anywhere near what I used to be. I wish I were once again that cold, emotionally distant, calculating, sane person. I wouldn't hurt so much then.

"I'm not like Avery. Look, If I was a figment of your imagination, I doubt I'd try and convince you that I was otherwise." John was picking up the glass from the floor, snagging his finger on a shard. "For god's sake." He sank onto the floor himself, just sitting there crying, obviously not out of physical pain, but pain at the fact that Sherlock wouldn't believe him. "This is all my fault, all of it. If I'd stayed awake, he wouldn't have been able to trick you. Look, watch this."  
>John threw Sherlock the DVD.<p>

The voice-over, by Jim, was very detailed in the way that he accomplished what he did. Sherlock put his head in his hands.

"No. No." Sherlock was breathing heavily, trying to keep from hyperventilating. The DVD was several hours long and by now the day was starting to turn to night. "Get out. Just go away, just leave me alone. Three hours by myself, alone in my own head." John made no moves, so Sherlock stood and grabbed his arm and more or less literally dragged him upstairs to John's room, shoved him in, and locked the door behind him, taking the key with him.

Sherlock swallowed and then receded in his mind—Avery was forefront. His eyes opened in a violent rage, and moved to watch the DVD again of the moment when wasn't-actually-John was killed. He watched it again and again, burning the gunman's face into his memory, as well as the name.

Avery flipped open Sherlock's laptop and began searching, hoping to find what he was looking for and hoping that the hallucinations wouldn't try to stop him. Mycroft's access codes were necessary—_He won't be using them any more_—but soon he found what he needed. He shut the computer and bounded out of the house.

Half an hour later, he was standing in a dark alley, a cigarette pressed between his lips and pressing Rowland to the wall with his body. "You don't know who I am," he said, eyes wild. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes. I'm Avery. They've called me the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer. Revenge is my motive." A cold knife was being pressed against the soldier's throat, Avery holding his head against the bricks. "The knowledge won't do you any good. You won't live to tell anyone about it." And then he cut the man's throat from ear to ear, dousing himself in arterial blood and finding more pleasure in it than he had before—a little bit of Sherlock's dark desires bleeding through. He smiled sickly and tapped his ashes into the dead man's trachea before taking out his cell phone. "I need your best man. Especially if he doesn't mind being knocked around a bit."

By the time John decided it was okay to leave the bedroom, he heard the main door shut and Avery was talking to someone. "It's just up here." Even from where John was, he could easily identify the sounds of extremely vigorous sex. John tried to pick the lock, but it was taking too long and the shouting from Sherlock's room grew louder before finally stopping, morphing into relieved laughter from Avery. That was enough. John broke down the door and stormed downstairs just in time to find a young man with spiky dyed blond hair leaving, gawking at a check in his hand. John found Avery lying on the bed, face in a post-coital state of pure ecstasy.

**Avery's blog:**

that was exactly what I needed. I'm not sure why it let Sherlock's primal desires through, but oh, I've enjoyed this evening thoroughly. there's only one thing that could have possibly made it better and that would be Moriarty's presence in the alley. or John in my bed instead of Joel. not that Joel was by any means a disappointment, I would just rather have had John. but I'll never get that chance.

**John's blog:**

Love is a strong word.

To me, it means you care for the person so much more than yourself.

You want to see them happy, and will never stop until you see it.

However, I fail to see how Avery is in love with me, or Sherlock. He abuses us, causes trouble, and basically makes our lives a misery.

_Go away, we will never love you._

Avery: you don't really want me to go away. and I won't corrupt your memory by following that instruction.

John: Believe me, I want nothing more.

Avery: then you will soon have your wish, the very next time I'm in command.

John: Don't you DARE hurt him, in any way.

Avery: I don't understand what you want me to do. I can no more easily leave this shared body than you can cease to be in yours. I don't want to hurt him. I don't know what's going on with you being dead but replying and I don't know what to do.

John: Well, if you love somebody you don't want to hurt them. You've hurt me by using Sherlock's body for shagging around. If you had respect for him, you wouldn't.

Avery: I can't very well shag a ghost. and I don't know how to release that on my own.

John: Oh, so _you_ think that I'm a ghost too? I'm not a ghost. I'm alive. Moriarty is messing with you two.

Trust me. I've never let either of you down, have I?

Avery: yes. or very nearly. every time you thought that death was the way out. that would have killed him—Sherlock who never lets anything get to him would have clawed himself to pieces, possibly literally, if you'd killed yourself. imagine what it would have done to me.

and you hated me. you shouted, you hit me, you threatened me. you never once gave me a chance, despite the fact that I am a part of him. you couldn't handle the thought that maybe all his darknesses coalesced into one psyche, exaggerated, admittedly, in some respects, but it was _always _there.

I guess I don't have to worry about unrequited love any more.

His knees buckled. "Why would you do this?" He cried up at him from the floor. "You fucking.. Why?.. I can't do this." John pulled himself up and went into his room, sobbing. Avery came in after a while, smirking. "Don't try and talk to me," John fumed. "You're shagging people, and it's not even your fucking body. I hate you, I actually do. Just get out of my face." He lit a cigarette with a smile, nodded, and went back into his room.

There was an eerie silence over the flat for the next two hours. Avery was trying his best not to claw himself to shreds—he thought that even his hallucination of John was never going to understand how he felt and he hated that he couldn't even get that right.

John's phone chimed.

_I thought you said Sherlock was under control! There's been another murder!  
>Lestrade<em>

Just about that time, Sherlock took control of his body again and began screaming. "Stop it! Just stop it!" He was hysterical, throwing things to the ground with the frail strength he had. For once he'd been aware of what Avery had done, just as every time before Avery had seen his own actions. It sickened him quite literally to be an observer within himself, watching his own limbs commit murder and become sexually aroused at the blood, not to mention venting that sexual energy.

Sherlock found the list of options he'd contemplated back when he'd first started suffering from Avery's presence. One, continuing unaided. Two, drugs. Three, experimental operation. Four—and only to be used in the case of the others not working—suicide.

_No,_ he thought vehemently once he realized it was crossing his mind again. _ I'll institutionalize myself first. Not that. _He threw the paper on the floor and staggered back into the living area where he flopped himself down in the chair, lighting a fire. Louis jumped into his lap and he petted the cat gratefully. "Thank you, for being here." He stared at Louis. "John named you Louis. The last thing he ever did. Or Mycroft." His hands were shaking relentlessly. "What do you think, hmm? Persistent vivid hallucinations, split personality, violent tendencies, a lack of emotional connections, constantly fighting drug addictions, and suicidal thoughts. Is it time for me to move to a hospital?"

John came out of his room. "Sherlock?" John wiped his eyes, which were red and puffy. Sherlock nodded. "You know what he did, don't you?" Sherlock sniffed. "Listen to me, I'm real. I'm not dead. I'm not a hallucination, or a dream. I'm real, I'm _alive._" Sherlock looked at him for a long while, as he crossed the room and sat in the chair opposite. "I wouldn't lie to you, unlike some." He nodded at his neck, which was covered in bruises and bite marks. Sherlock rubbed it, as if he wanted to wipe them away. He mumbled something about this conversation not being real. "I promise you, it is. Please." John started to cry, loudly. "Please. I am begging you. I wouldn't lie to you. Believe me."

"If you really are you," Sherlock replied desperately, "Why did I see you killed? It was you. Everything was telling me it was you. Your clothes, your voice, your smell, even—even the taste of your blood. And a history of hyper-vivid hallucinations and an unfamiliarity with grief are leading me to the conclusion that _you're not here_." It was the same tone he'd used by the fireside in Grimpen, that desperate need for it all to make sense. "I can't do this. I can't." He shut his eyes tightly and clenched his fists. He was trying to block out all sensory input by diving deep into his own mind, but not deeply enough where Avery would take hold. He stayed tense until the morning came, by which point, he'd fallen asleep, dreaming fitfully, sometimes kicking out, sometimes yelping, but never once peaceful.

In the morning, Sherlock crept into John's room and sat in the corner watching him. John was only half aware of this; he was still half asleep. "mfh- Sherlock?" He grunted, and looked up. Sherlock nodded, silently, the same grim look on his face as last night. John got up and then sat crossed legged, in front of him. He tried to take Sherlock's hand, but he pulled away. "Trust." He looked him deeply in the eyes. Sherlock put his hands back out to John's. "Let's say- and I'm not saying by any means that this is true, and I am your imagination, the 'ghost' of John Watson; what would you say to me?" Sherlock, who had been looking at their hands, glanced up at him, tearfully.

Sherlock struggled to maintain level breathing. "You know it already. You're part of my mind." John protested, saying to use this as a therapeutic exercise. "I hate that I still can't love you. I never deserved you. Not as a friend and not as whatever we became. Sometimes, when I was half asleep, I almost didn't think you were mortal. In that state between dreams and waking, when reason had yet to switch on, I thought that you were an angel sent to protect me. But of course, that's not true. But you'd have a hard time convincing less rational people of that. I don't know what quirk of coincidence ultimately led you to my side, but I would never erase it." He shut his eyes and three tears fell. "And I don't know what I'd do to bring you back."

"Sometimes, I did wish I was a part of your mind. That brilliant mind." He smiled. "But no. I'm not, and I doubt I ever will be." He wiped his tears away. "I know you couldn't love me, but a part of you did. Avery, the emotional, reckless and uncontrollable side of you. I don't like him much, no where as near as much as I like, and love you." Sherlock sniffed, and looked at John. His eyes had gone silvery from the tears. "I will always be here to protect you, and you know it. I'm not gone, and you don't need to bring me back. I mean that. I'm here to stay." Sherlock shook his head. John leaned over and kissed him, for once, Sherlock returned the kiss. He pulled away and ran his finger along the length of Sherlock's nose. "Please trust me. I will never let you down."

Sherlock stood up, in tears. "What's wrong with me?" He rubbed his face before leaving the room and heading downstairs, ringing Mrs. Hudson's doorbell.

"Oh! You're up! I was just about to make some tea," she said.

"No. I need something stronger." He looked at her, utterly emotionally lost. She nodded, maternally, and before too much longer, Sherlock was telling her everything, unedited and without filters, even more sincerely than he'd spoken to John.

He started with the start of the sexual half of the experiment—reassuring John he was still alive by asking to take their relationship further. He didn't know that was going to cement John's feelings even further. He went on to talk about how he hated that he didn't love John, and the fact that he felt he'd misused John's trust in him. (By now, John was standing in the room, silently watching in horror and sympathy.)

He drank more and now he was detailing his rape and torture, how he knew when he exchanged himself for John that it was going to happen, but thought he could handle it if it meant John was safe. He was wrong.

He took another glass of whiskey. Avery's story was being told in 221A, everything from the minor struggle of not being able to finish a song on the violin to the terror of seeing his crimes on the news and knowing what his own hands had done. And then he discussed the surgery and how, for a brief instant, he'd thought he'd loved John in the normal sense.

He took three glasses when he came to describe what happened in France, from the joy of the field to the horror of discovering his severe blood fetish, as well as Avery's return, and started on a fourth glass when he discussed why he had to come home.

His speech was slow and slurred when he started telling Mrs. Hudson about the cocaine. He was scared she'd judge him like his mother would. He told her how it was the only thing that took Avery's hallucinations and buried them completely. He shut his eyes against the memory of the pain of the withdrawals and reached for the bottle again. Mrs. Hudson refilled his glass, understanding how therapeutic this moment was.

He could barely talk at all when it came time to relate his most recent trouble. He found himself having to concentrate on every syllable as he described that horrible hexagonal room where he saw what every sense told him was his brother and closest friend die violently.

He even found himself telling her about the fact that for once, he was aware of what Avery had done when he killed a man in an alley and how he realized he didn't regret it at all. What he hated was that he got off on it. The blood fetish had manifested all the way through to Avery and that the only way he could think of to express it was to hire a prostitute because he didn't have John and anyway John wouldn't have consented, had he still been alive.

He was so sloshed by the time he'd poured his soul out that he could barely stand up when Mrs. Hudson finally gave him the little push of "Up to bed with you, Sherlock." Sherlock managed to get up to the first landing before passing out on the stairs.

John was glued to the spot and Mrs Hudson hugged him. "You boys. You need to speak more. He thinks I'm going to judge him, and you. I knew you two were having trouble, but you never said. Tomorrow, I want you both down here in the afternoon, okay? Go and help him." She patted him on the back and closed the door behind him.

John got to the top of the stairs and picked Sherlock up, who was extremely light. He took him into his room, and put him on the bed, covering him with the blankets. He sat, looking at him, watching his rest, peacefully for once. "You won't trust me," John whispered. "Please." He stroked his face, comfortingly, as Sherlock mumbled something he couldn't quite make out. John planted a kiss on his lips and then lay down next to him, holding his hand.

Sherlock dreamed fitfully, his alcohol-clouded mind running through all the scenarios of every one of Avery's planned kills and how it compared to Moriarty. It was hell. When he did wake up, he was sweating and ill, and only just managed to make it to the toilet in time before vomiting. Louis rubbed on his arm as if seeing if he was alright.

"I'm fine, Louis. I just drank too much. Another promise broken." He wiped his mouth on a towel before falling onto his side. Louis sniffed his arm. "I'll try another week and if things don't clear up, you'll have to live with Mrs. Hudson for a while." He stroked the cat gently, desperately wanting his mind to get better so he wouldn't have to part from something else he cared for.

Mycroft knocked on the door to Sherlock's room, but entered before he could get a response. "Drinking again?" Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, except to vomit again into the toilet. Mycroft sighed sadly. "John," he said, waking John up with not the most gentle of shakes. "The blood work finally came in. I understand why he's so convinced it was we who died."

"Now my hallucinations are talking to each other in a different room," Sherlock said weakly. "That's not nice, is it, Louis?"

Mycroft continued. "You may be aware of Project H.O.U.N.D, an American secret chemical weapons development project. Heightened fear response, incredibly suggestive, and after prolonged periods, psychosis. I see that you are. Apparently Moriarty got his hands on the formula and chose Sherlock to be a test subject on a more advanced version. Unfortunately, he's the only test subject and we have no further data."

Sherlock groaned and stumbled back into his bedroom, peaky, and collapsed on the bed with his face in his pillow and his hands to his ears. Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I trust that this might be the starting push to help him realize what's real and what isn't."

"I hope it does." John snapped. "Sorry. I don't mean to snap, I'm just sick and tired of him telling me that I'm not real." Mycroft nodded.  
>"He's been ignoring my calls, I guessed he thought it was his imagination."<p>

Sherlock emerged from his room to find Mycroft and John laughing at the table over cups of tea.  
>"Ah, brother. Doctor Watson here was just telling me about your beloved hat. I must get you one in another colour." John smiled and pulled out a chair.<br>"How are you, love?" Sherlock stared at them, and slowly sank into the chair.

"Well, you'd know," Sherlock said as if addressing a client. "Hungover, hallucinating, grief-stricken, desperate for the one thing that'll make it go away, and on the verge of checking myself into a mental hospital." He put his hands over his face. "If this had happened five years ago, I would have been fine. Maybe not completely fine but more fine than this. If I'm not completely insane, I'm on the verge of it." He stroked Louis who had jumped into his lap. "What does it say about me when I just give up on trying to ignore hallucinations?"

John stood up, pulling Sherlock to his feet. "If I'm not real, then this wouldn't hurt you." He hit him, full on in the face, knocking him onto the floor. Mycroft gasped, but he stayed in his seat, peering over at his brother.  
>"Watson, was that <em>really<em> necessary?" He snapped.  
>"Yeah, obviously. You know he wouldn't believe me otherwise." Sherlock groaned, clutching his face.<br>"Are you okay, brother?" Mycroft smirked, trying to hide the hidden laughter in his voice.

Sherlock rolled over, hand on his face, but didn't rise. "I don't understand. I saw you die. I actually saw both of you get shot. I felt your blood splatter on my face. I heard the gunshot, I saw the wounds."

Mycroft rose and helped Sherlock back to his feet, although he quickly flopped back into his chair. "A mere illusion caused by a mind under the power of a powerful psychoactive drug."

"I…hallucinated that?" Sherlock was pale and clearly on the verge of another hangover-related vomit, but managed to hold it down. "Not all of it. It couldn't have been all of it."

Mycroft handed Sherlock a bucket as if reading his brother's thoughts. "Moriarty filled in all the gaps except the final faces. It would have been like witnessing our stunt-doubles' deaths, though with the gas, you saw it as us."

Sherlock clung to the bucket. "It—" He leaned forward, expelling what was left of the contents of his stomach. Mycroft handed him a towel. "This whole time? I was fooled? I, Sherlock Holmes, was tricked by a drug?"

"Indeed." Mycroft laughed. "But it could happen to any of us." He pulled him to his feet and brushed him off. "I always knew a swift punch to the face would sort you out. Now that you're aware of what's happening, I should go." He nodded, patted his brother on the shoulder and left, humming on the way out.

John sighed and looked at him. "Sorry, it needed to be done. Let me get you an ice-pack." He pulled one out of the freezer and held it onto his face for him. "All those things you said, you know… Did you mean them?" Sherlock stayed silent, and chewed on his lip thoughtfully.

"Of course I meant them. Do I ever say something I don't mean?" Sherlock reconsidered for a moment. "To you. About us." He shut his eyes. "I don't know what's real any more. It's like everything I had—my senses—have been stolen. Between Moriarty and Avery, I don't know." He rubbed his temples. "I thought I was fine, I thought I was unbeatable, but if I can't trust the evidence of my eyes and my skin and my nose, how am I meant to do my job?" He shook his head. "I can't be any sort of detective any more if this goes on. I haven't had a proper case in months, and at this rate, I shouldn't handle one ever again."

John's phone chimed again.

_I need to know. Is he under control?  
>Lestrade<em>

"Take your meds." John passed him two pills whilst looking at his phone.

_Yes. Moriarty got to him again._

_He's going to be fine._

_-John._

Sherlock swallowed them, and frowned. John smiled at him, and then hugged him. "I love you." Sherlock's face look contorted with pain when he said that, but he hugged him back, tightly.

"Speaking of, it's Wednesday, isn't it?" Sherlock spoke directly into John's ear, still not releasing him. "Time for our couples' therapy?" He laughed weakly. "It's going to be a hell of a session." He clutched John as if he were a dream Sherlock didn't want to let go of, holding him with unusual emotion. It was a pure emotion, like a child reunited with their parent after being lost. But his grip slowly lessened and he vaguely mumbled "I never want to let go of you," and it was clear the pills were starting to numb him.

John nuzzled into him, with a smile. "Me neither." Sherlock looked down at him, sleepily. "Come on, let's go and get ready."

When they were dressed, Sherlock hugged him again. "Somebody wants loads of hugs today, are you okay?" John grinned, as it was rare that Sherlock was this hands on with him. "Shall we go and catch a cab?" Sherlock nodded with a small smile, but it seemed like he was really tired.

He insisted on holding John's hand, glovelessly, as they got into their cab. "No. I'm not okay," he finally answered. Sherlock shook his head as if he were trying to get water out of his ears. "I know what the whispers are," he said quietly so as not to upset the cabbie, but didn't elaborate.

When they got out of the cab, Sherlock had to gently hoist his trousers to their proper level. "I need to fill out," he muttered. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be happy to oblige." He took John's hand again and held it tightly, his eyes distant from the drugs but fighting to focus.

When they arrived, Sherlock kept hold of John's hand, even when they were in Wilson's office. Doctor Wilson greeted them with a smile, and a nod to acknowledge the fact that they were holding hands.

"So, where do you want to start? I see you've fully recovered, Sherlock, that's great. Are you still taking your medication?" Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything. It was clear he wanted John to have this session. "Okay, here's a suggestion," She slid down the chair, into a comfortable position and put her feet on the desk. "How about you tell me how you felt when Sherlock was denying your existence?" John winced, and squeezed Sherlock's hand.  
>"I felt like he was right," John coughed, awkwardly. "I knew he wasn't, but I felt sort of, faded. If he doesn't believe in me then what's the point?"<p>

Sherlock spoke disturbingly calmly. "As you'll recall, I was under the impression that you had been violently murdered in front of me." He looked down. "I haven't entirely shaken that impression, though there's now more evidence to support the fact that you're alive than there is to the contrary."

Doctor Wilson looked at them for a moment. "I'm going to ask you something, and feel free to refuse if it's outside your comfort zone. Sherlock, I want you to kiss John in whatever way you normally do, and then I want you both to tell me what you feel. Then I want John to kiss you, and again, tell me what you're feeling."

Sherlock swallowed and gently brushed John on the lips with his before retreating in his usual way, slightly shy, like a ten-year-old's playground kiss. "Um. Connection. Reassurance. A plea for safety." He was plainly having a hard time finding the correct words, but settled for those instead.

"John, what did you feel?"

"Warmth, happiness, closeness." John smiled.  
>"Hm, I see. You both clearly depend on each other, then. Do you two kiss regularly? By that, I mean, on a daily basis, at least."<br>"No." John and Sherlock answered at the same time. Doctor Wilson raised her eyebrows.  
>"I see, and does that bother either of you?" John nodded, but Sherlock put his hands together, showing that he was thinking. "And, what about you, Mr Holmes?"<p>

"No, why would it bother me?" Sherlock shook his head slightly in the way that told John he was trying to ignore the whispers in his head. "We kiss far more than I did in my last relationship. Admittedly John starts it most of the time. It's…not very me."

"Interesting. Why not?"

"I don't know. Physical expression of attraction has never been my style." Sherlock paused on the colloquialism as if trying to make it fit his mouth. He blinked hard and twitched his head again, gently enough to where Doctor Wilson, writing notes, didn't see.

"And now it's your turn to kiss Sherlock."

When John pressed his lips against Sherlock's, suddenly Sherlock—or rather Avery—was losing control, pressing John to the sofa, forgetting that they were in public, putting his hands places not decent for viewing. "Sherlock," warned Doctor Wilson, but Avery didn't answer to that name and wasn't relenting.

"Get off." John mumbled. He did, his eyes hungry and a smirk across his face. Doctor Wilson noted this down.  
>"So, to whom am I speaking?" She smiled up. Avery almost spat his name at her, and he slumped in the chair, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.<br>"Sometimes Avery _does_ take over when I kiss Sherlock," Avery snorted with laughter and winked at John. "…And it's difficult to stop him, as you may of noticed." Avery was smiling to himself, licking his lips.  
>"I see, and what do you feel towards Avery?" John glared at him.<br>"I don't know. I'm clearly sexually attracted to him, because he's in Sherlock's body, but not romantically, we argue a lot."

Avery was smoking furiously, clearly agitated, and the medicine in the body meant he could hear Sherlock's thoughts, though the nicotine suppressed them. Doctor Wilson rather forcibly took the cigarettes from him and threw the unlit ones in the bin while stamping the lit one out on the bottom of her shoe—she was a casual smoker, too, and recognized the need to be forceful with Avery. "You're not supposed to smoke in here." Avery's nose twitched in irritation.

"He's never even given me a try," Avery said. "And unlike Sherlock, I love him. Completely. But he won't let me be with him. Not once." He began scratching his head. "Damned whispers." He fidgeted awkwardly in his seat, obviously trying to resist further expressing his sexual urges. He turned to John directly. "He's hurt you, you know that. And I'm speaking strictly sexually. I have no attraction to the blood he seems to get off on. I wouldn't hurt you like that. And no matter how much I express my feelings for you, you won't even try to give me a chance. Unrequited love's a bitch, as I'm sure you know."

"Aside from the fact that you're a complete psychopath who thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants, I think you're quite a catch." John pouted, angrily. Avery almost giggled. "Even if I wanted to give you a chance, it'd be cheating on Sherlock, technically." Avery tried to protest, but was silenced by a wave of Doctor Wilson's hand.  
>"John, feel free not to answer, but <em>would<em> you have sex with Avery if it wasn't considered cheating?" John frowned slightly.  
>"I don't know. Maybe. I don't like to lead people on, and shagging somebody is going to give them the wrong idea, obviously." Avery was biting his lip, trying to hold his tongue. "I mean, I appreciate the fact that you love me, and no, I don't really understand it, but… I can't help loving Sherlock."<p>

"It's interesting," Doctor Wilson said. "You treat Avery almost like you're the parent of a teenage son in the midst of an almost unusually powerful sexual awakening. But you treat Sherlock as an equal."

Avery leaped up from his seat, snarling "I am not a child." He approached the window but only made it halfway before staggering and falling to one knee with a groan.

"Let's play how many legal substances can we fit in Sherlock Holmes's bloodstream at once! Alcohol check, but nearly metabolised, nicotine, check, experimental hallucinogenic, status unknown, and whatever is in those pills, check." He waved his hand dismissively as he slowly rose to return to his seat. "I'm fine." His body language showed that he was back to being Sherlock. "Um. What were we talking about? Oh, right, the, uh, the feelings we have when kissing."

"As I was about to say, I guess I do. Avery just makes a mess of everything, and hurts us both. Sherlock is my equal, not intellectually, of course." Wilson noted this down.  
>"Sherlock, how do you feel when Avery kisses John?" Wilson looked at him, gravely. "Does it make you feel any strong emotions, or do you see it as a part of you?"<p>

"I'm never aware of his activities, barring once." _And it was the worst once. A murder and an exo-relationship shag. _ "I find it strange that John, knowing that Avery is a manifestation and exaggeration of all that is dark in me, but is nonetheless me, won't try at least once. I understand his reasons, but I find it peculiar all the same." Sherlock put his hand to his head, clearly feeling ill. "Avery provides things I can't, things that I thought most people need in a relationship." He sighed. "Nevertheless, I do wish he'd ask permission of, at least, John. At the very worst, it's rape with emotional consequences on a scale Moriarty would never be able to achieve. I don't think he completely understands that, and if he does, he doesn't care." He laughed weakly, a laugh clearly only present to stave off tears. "The only way I could be free of him was the cocaine. And look what that's done to me. Again." He moved back to the sofa on which John was sitting and leaned against him, feeling quite ill and looking it. "May I have the bin, please? In the event I need to vomit? Hangover and this medication in brutal combination," he said by way of explanation.

After Sherlock had vomited, John knew it was time to leave.  
>"Thank you, Doctor Wilson, see you next week." He shook her hand and then put his arm around Sherlock. "Come on, I think you need some rest."<p>

In the cab home, John noticed Sherlock watching him, silently.  
>"What?" John asked, defensibly. Sherlock shook his head, but carried on. "Go on, tell me wha-" It was Avery, back with a passion. He had forced himself onto John, slipping his hands up his shirt.<br>"God, get off me." John pushed him away. "I wish you'd ask permission or something, Avery. So does Sherlock." He laughed, and lit a cigarette-from a box he'd been keeping in his sock, blowing the smoke in John's face. He put his arm around John and kissed him on the top of the head, before he shuffled away.

He didn't make it to the door of the upstairs rooms before spasming, falling to the floor with a shout, clutching his abdomen as his stomach cramped violently. The cigarette had fallen out of his mouth, on the wood floor, but it was extinguished as Avery vomited once again, the pain getting the better of him.

"Dear God," he half-screamed. "What's in those pills?" The spasm ended and he was left on the floor, shaking. "It's like having fire ants in my blood—you don't notice them until there's a trigger and then BAM, they all attack at once." He did his best to sit up, leaning on one arm and an elbow. "I need a shower."

John heard quite plainly the sounds of continued vomiting as Sherlock/Avery tried to shower. It was hard to listen to, but right now, John needed some space. And besides that, Mrs. Hudson was climbing up the stairs. "He's not too well, is he?" She winced on Sherlock's behalf. "Still, I take it he's realized you're not dead. I was wondering, we should plan a big meal for Sherlock. He's just skin and bones." She half-dragged John downstairs to help her plan the meal, and when they finished an hour later, after a longer-than-strictly-required conversation, John found Sherlock/Avery curled up on the couch, facing the wall, shaking, in nothing but a haphazardly-placed sheet, with Louis snoozing arrogantly on his side.

John lay down behind him, slipping his arms around him, trying not to knock Louis off. "Are you okay?" John whispered to him, his chin resting on his shoulder. He mumbled a response, before putting his hand in John's and falling asleep.

John soon guessed it was Avery, as when he woke up he turned around and confessed his undying love for him.  
>"You don't look well at all, you need to stop smoking." Avery whimpered and put his forehead against John's.<p>

Avery's eyes rolled feebly. "John?" They opened again, confused, and he weakly shook his head in the way he did when trying to get rid of the whispers. "What happened? We were in the cab…and now here?" John explained everything he knew to Sherlock, who only seemed to be half-listening. "My mind," Sherlock whispered. "It's clawing at itself from the inside out. The whispers…" He grabbed his head. "I need a different medication…"

"We'll go and look at other options tomorrow, you need to stay put right now." Sherlock sighed and clutched John. "Personally, I think you need to get used to them without smoking or drinking, or drugs. Maybe then they'll work." Sherlock shook his head and groaned. "Okay, okay. Calm down." John kissed him on the nose and hugged him. Louis was curled around their feet again, purring. "I love you." John murmured, sleepily.

There was a knock on the door. "Yoo-hoo—oh," said Mrs. Hudson on seeing them together on the sofa. She blushed and turned to leave. "Dinner will be ready soon, boys."

Sherlock blinked, shaking, trying to get his head right. "She's made us dinner?" He swallowed, still feeling quite ill. "I suppose we ought to be making an attempt to get ready." He waited until John got up before standing and wrapping the sheet back around him, staggering unsteadily to his bedroom. He emerged holding his trousers in place. "Have you got a belt I could borrow?" He smiled feebly as if apologizing for his terrible weight loss, but shuddered violently, leaning on the door for support.

"Yeah, sure." He passed him one, and then frowned. "You seem really unsteady on your feet, do you want me to help you down the stairs?" Sherlock nodded, with a small frown, like he was frustrated at himself.

When they got down to 221a, Mrs Hudson smiled and welcomed them in. She'd lit the table up with candles, on top of a red velvet table cloth. There were only two places, and Sherlock and John frowned at her, confused.  
>"It's valentines day soon, and you boys are hopeless at anything like this. I didn't mention that I was going to the theater. Enjoy yourselves." She nodded and walked out, grabbing her coat.<br>"Right.." John said, sitting down.

Sherlock sighed, too unwell to protest. He smirked slightly as his stomach growled loudly. "Who am I to argue with the transport?" He picked up his fork and began eating greedily, with far worse manners than he'd intended. He winced and shook his head. "The whispers are meant to ease up as the dose wears off, not get louder." It was obvious that Sherlock was very disturbed by the fact that he could hear Avery's thoughts. "Stop it." He swayed and started to fall forward, but caught himself. "I'm not well, John." It was an obvious thing to say, but the fact that he admitted it revealed just how seriously he was taking it. "My mind…it's falling to bits. It's like a claustrophobic cat. If it doesn't have something to distract it, to calm it, it tears at the walls relentlessly." He took a generous sip of water. "I haven't had a case in months, I can't sleep throughout the night, and when I do manage to sleep, I have violent nightmares or blank into Avery, and in a desperate attempt to find something to do, my mind is having conversations with itself." He took a bite of his Shepherd's Pie, and chewed slowly, trying to calm himself. "I think this was meant to be a romantic dinner, and I'm ruining it. Again."

"No you're not. Besides, you don't do romance." John pouted, and then grinned. Sherlock nodded and carried on eating mouthful after mouthful. "Oh, erm, I have something for you." Sherlock raised his eyebrow with a smile. "Here." John passed him a small box, and Sherlock slowly opened it. Inside, were John's dog tags from the army. "I know it's not much, but I want you to have them." Sherlock was grinning, holding them in his hands, gently, as if they were extremely fragile.

"John…these are…" Sherlock was completely at a loss for words. It was something so personal, so private, that he didn't feel he deserved them. He ran his fingers along them as they caught the candlelight, a tear coming to his eyes. He stood up and kissed John a bit more desperately than usual, but nowhere near Avery: _I need you so much more than I have the words to say. _ "My guardian angel," he whispered as he pulled away. "I, uh, I don't have anything to give you." He stumbled on his way back to his side of the table, but righted himself before getting there, slumping in his seat and shutting his eyes for a few seconds, as the world seemed to be swaying.

"Obviously, I mean aside from the kidnapping and the almost comatose state, it's been rather difficult to go shopping." John laughed. "No, never mind about that." Sherlock grimaced. "Come on, eat up, and we'll go back upstairs and watch Pirates of the Caribbean." That seemed to cheer Sherlock up a tad, as he was smiling whilst he finished the rest of his meal.  
>"You go upstairs, I'm gonna clean up down here."<p>

When he was done, he left a note for Mrs Hudson.

_Dear Mrs Hudson,  
>Thank you for a lovely meal! I've cleaned up behind us and left you a bottle of wine in the fridge.<br>John xx_

He hopped up the stairs, but Sherlock wasn't in the living room. "Sherlock?" John called out, confused. There was no reply, but he hadn't gone out because John would have heard the front door. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was on the bathroom floor, dazed, whispering to himself as if trying to work something out, but speaking almost conversationally. "Why would he do that? I don't know, but this isn't working. Four should have been enough. No, idiot, if two reintegrates enough to hear thoughts, four should be enough for a full reconstitution. I know that, don't be stupid. Then why did you take them? I had to try to stop the whispers. And that didn't work, now we can talk. Actually talk. Which reminds me, I've been meaning to ask you about John. What about him? It's obvious how much he hates me. What have I done wrong? Besides half-raped him, you mean? Yes. Killing five people. But he's killed. In the army. He's taken more lives than I have. In. The. Army. He's a doctor, he shouldn't be killing. Soldier, too. I don't understand your obsession. It's called love. It's obsession and you've deluded yourself about that. I love him with every fibre of my being, you know that, and I love you too. Stop it, just shut up, stop it. There's no reason to be afraid—I am you. No. I'm a part of you you'd either locked away so tightly you thought it withered and died or always denied. I chose to block out everything that you are for a reason. Something inside that was always denied for so many years," he sang. He wasn't registering anything other than his own conversation, not even Louis sniffing him, concerned.

**Sherlock and Avery's blogs:**

twice the dose was meant to shut off the whispers but now I don't know who I am—am I Sherlock or am I Avery? I've been blended together like a smoothie, the ice and the milk inseparable, both sets of thoughts at once and strong as normal thoughts.

I'm going insane and there's nothing I can do to stop it, I need a smoke, I need an injection, make it go away, make it stop. my mind is scraping itself to pieces like a caged animal trying to get away and it's hurting both itself and the container in which it is held.

twice what they said to take; I thought it would make the whispers go away, but it's turned them into shouts, into normal thoughts, and who am I? Sherlock? Avery? I don't know which I am, I'm both and it hurts and I need an out.

"What have you done now?" John was leaning over him. Sherlock, or Avery, gasped and tried to jump up. "Woah, stop, you're going to hurt yourself. Come here." John carried him to the living room, and sat him down. "Drink this." He passed him orange juice and made sure he drank it. "So…" John sat down next to him awkwardly. "Who am I talking to?" He frowned.

Sherlock/Avery choked on the juice. "AverySherlock, both, neither, I don't understand, four pills, four pills turned the whispers into screams." He was still unable to completely process John's presence. "Make them go away, make him go away, I need my own mind, I need space, I need silence in my head." On the last three words, he'd started hitting himself. John rushed over and grabbed his arms. "It was supposed to shut them up, but all it's done is both minds at once. But at least we're having a heart to heart. That's true, though not under circumstances I'd have chosen. You should have seen that it might happen. I did, I knew it was a risk, but a calculated risk. Like the cabbie? Yes, no, maybe, I don't know. And yet again, you've taken too many pills. I don't need your criticisms, you have no right to tell me what to do. And you do? Yes—it's my body. I live here, too. Mine. Just as much as 221B is yours but John's living there? Yes—no. Gaaaah, make this stop!" He was twitching violently throughout the conversation with himself, obviously anxious and in pain.

"It's going to take about an hour or so to wear off." John was shouting a bit, shaking him. Sherlock/Avery stopped and stared at him, eyes not quite right. "We're going to watch a film, and I want you both to keep quiet. Don't think, don't even speak, just watch either me or the film." There was a nod, and then silence, with the occasional twitch. "You should be better by the end of this, and it'll leave one of you dominant until the next dose."

"Can't not think." Sherlock/Avery seemed offended by the idea that he could just turn their minds on and off. Nevertheless, he managed to keep his conversation to very quiet whispers, not even paying attention to the film, and about halfway through, suddenly shouted "A beard! Should I grow a beard? No, that would look silly. Would it? Yes." He was still twitching and shaking, but by the time the film ended, he'd stopped muttering and just sat, semivacant as he was on his normal dosage. He wasn't looking at the television now, he was looking at John, a helpless look on his face. "Make it stop."

When the film was over, Sherlock/Avery was starting to manifest into just one. "Are you okay now?" They had ended up curled up on the couch in the middle of the film, because Sherlock/Avery had started crying. He nodded, and snuggled into John's neck. "You should be okay now." John whispered, patting him on the back like a baby. "You'll be able to take another dose in a few hours, but not yet."

"All I hear…screaming. He's screaming. He's terrified and I'm terrified." He grabbed John tightly. "Neither of us—this isn't working." John cautiously asked who was in command right now. "Avery. I'm Avery." He laced his fingers together against John's back and sniffed. "I'm so tired, John. But I can't sleep. Sing to me." John opened his mouth in protest. "Please," Avery insisted tearfully.

"Alright, but I'm not very good." Avery closed his eyes and placed his head on John's chest. He sung a french lullaby that Sherlock had taught him. His voice was soft and calm, warming and soothing, and it helped him drop right off to sleep.

When he woke up, John asked who was in control- still Avery.  
>"I've decided something," he said, his eyes distant. "I'm going to give you a chance."<p>

Avery looked up hopefully. Avery obviously wanted a genuine shag with John, but after Sherlock's reprimands, was a bit more hesitant. He wasn't quite certain how best to reply, but he settled for hugging John gently and kissing his neck, forcing himself to stay respectful. "How much of a chance? Snog? Or something more?"

"I think, a kiss first. I need to see if you can hold yourself back." Avery nodded, and leaned in to meet his lips. This time, instead of being forceful and desperate, he was gentle and slow. He put his hands on John's shoulders instead of all over him. He occasionally flicked his tongue over his lips and smiled, but he stayed respectful and kept his hands where they were.

Even so, it was passionate, almost romantic, full of gratitude rather than blind desire. There were tears on his face, as well. "Mphthank you," he said, removing his mouth from John's and placing it on his unscarred shoulder (the scar was a place for Sherlock alone). He kissed the new scars caused by Sherlock's abnormal passions, as if his love would erase them forever. He started at the shoulder and began moving down John's chest. Sherlock, in Avery's head, was simply observing the differences in their styles. John tensed and Avery sat back up. "Am I moving too quickly?" Now that he had John's attentions, he was frightened of losing them.

"No," He whimpered, "What does Sherlock think?" Avery explained it to him and John nodded. He kissed down the middle of his chest and back up to his mouth. He kissed along side of his jaw, slowly, running his hands down his sides. Avery slowly unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, and kissed near his hips, humming as he went.

John pulled him back up from his hips, and started kissing his neck instead, nipping playfully. Avery gasped, digging his nails into John's skin, lightly.

And it escalated from there, Avery's mind fully present, unlike when Sherlock engaged in sex. It wasn't hard for John to see why the male prostitute had been so delighted on his way out—Avery's methods were altogether different from Sherlock. With Sherlock, it had been well-calculated, precise, cold, even when his blood kink had taken hold, but with Avery it was by far more intense and personal, as if he really was giving his whole soul to John. Avery giggled, happy, not just for the fact that he was having sex, but the fact that it was with the one person he wanted more than any other (since having Sherlock was obviously out of the question). And if John thought Sherlock was good at this…

Eventually they finished and Avery got out of bed and swaggered over to the bookshelf, not bothering to cover himself. "Enjoying the show, Mycroft?" He could just picture Mycroft's eyes rolling. Avery turned back to John, arrogantly grinning and satisfied. "Had enough? Want you to be able to walk tomorrow, you know."

John smiled and flopped back onto the pillows. For once, he felt completely happy, probably because of the endorphins. There was of course, a pang of guilt, because he wished it was Sherlock instead. Avery jumped back into the bed and threw his arms around John, telling him how much he loved him, and how good it was. John smirked. "Don't flatter me," and Avery protested.

"That was the best I've ever had," Avery insisted before giggling. "Of course, I only have memories of you and of Joel. Just proves, I guess, that it's better for both when you both have your whole heart in it." He smirked as he rested John's head on his chest. The adrenaline was fading now. "Funny. I don't even want a cigarette." He had one hand behind his head and the other on John's heart, covering the M with its Sherlock-inflicted vertical lines. "You're too good to be true, John, you really are, in every way." John could hear his heart slowing down as his already-exhausted body prepared for sleep. Avery kissed the top of John's head and soon fell asleep, peacefully and without so much as a twitch.


	7. Infected

When John woke up, it was Sherlock, and not Avery. He was staring at the cuts on his chest. "Happy Valentines day." Sherlock smiled, and tugged on the dog tags with a smile. "How are you?" Sherlock didn't say anything, instead he hugged him, but with a sad look on his face. "I'm sorry." John croaked. "I shouldn't of given him a chance, should I? It's made you sad."

"No, I'm glad you were willing to try." Sherlock meant it. "Shows open-mindedness and a willingness to help him. I was somehow able to watch this time. The only sadness I feel is that I can't do that for you. I saw how much you enjoyed it. I saw how much he enjoyed it. He put something of himself into it that I don't have to give." He pulled out from underneath John. "And he didn't hurt you." Without another word, Sherlock went to shower.

While Sherlock was showering, the doorbell rang. There were four bouquets of roses, two for Sherlock, two for John. One of each was mixed orange and red roses, the cards labelled "I love you with my whole soul. Avery". John's other one was white and yellow roses, the card simply stating "Thank you -S", while Sherlock's other bouquet was solid black roses and the card red "see you soon! xx"

"Thank you." John kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "Who are they from?" He took the note out and read it. "Ugh, give them here." He stamped on them in the middle of the street. "He'll get the message." He walked back up to the living room and slumped on the couch. "So, what do you want to do today?" Sherlock smiled, and put their roses in vases. "I was thinking the park."

"Everyone will be at the park." Realizing that he ought to listen to what John wanted, he paused. "That doesn't mean we can't go, obviously. Whatever you want." He frowned at the pill bottle on the table. "I'm going to tell Hussey that those aren't working." He handed them to John. "I…I did enjoy last night, even though I was…not exactly audience, but neither was I participant. Not really a word for that, I guess." He shifted his trousers. "I'm going to have to continue to borrow your belts for some time, I think." Once he'd started putting it on, he took John's hand gently, in his schoolboy way. "I think the endorphins and adrenaline of last night helped, actually. Avery's quiet today. Calm. And I don't feel like I'm slipping away from myself."

"I enjoyed it too," John smiled. "Although, I did feel like you'd be upset with me." Sherlock shook his head. "You can choose whatever belt you want, they're in my drawer. I'll get ready in a moment." Sherlock went to get changed whilst John read one of the valentines day cards that had come through the door.

_Dear Johnny,_

_Roses are red  
>Violets are blue<br>I miss you sooo much  
>and I'll be seeing you soon.<em>

_-M! xxx_

John ripped it up and went to get changed, today was not one he wanted ruined.

Sherlock came back in, tucking in his shirt. The belt was certainly not his style, but it would have to do until he filled out enough to not look like a walking skeleton. He saw the pile of card pieces on the floor and sighed. "Not today," he muttered. "I refuse to be ruined today." He got out his tongs and switched on the bunsen burner. John came in to find Sherlock holding each little shred of a card over the concentrated flames. Sherlock did it slowly and deliberately, watching each card catch fire.

Eventually he stood and buttoned his jacket. "Ready?" He gave his _nothing's bothering me, don't worry_ smile as he donned his coat and scarf.

"Ready." John smiled. Sherlock linked him as they walked out of the flat and down the road towards the park. Valentines day was always a strange one, as there would be happy couples nodding to each other, or ones snogging whilst walking, and nearly stepping out in front of a bus. Sherlock and John weren't like that, of course. "We're going to call Lestrade today," Sherlock frowned. "You need a case, even if your head is wrecked." Sherlock smiled at the idea. "You need one, and you know it."

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. "It's the one thing that might be able to keep my head from tearing itself to shreds." When they arrived at the park, there was a local radio station, promoting, so they had a large stereo system set up. Sherlock smiled sarcastically. "We have our own soundtrack," he sneered.

They walked around for about an hour, perfectly content to just be in each other's company, sometimes holding hands, sometimes linking arms, sometimes just nearby. They spoke very little. They were just together, and that was what mattered.

They returned to the speakers, as tall as Sherlock or more, hand-in-hand. He was smiling like he had in France, before the trouble started. But Sherlock tensed up as he saw a man that looked very like Moran dressed in a parka very like John's. "Trick of the mind," Sherlock muttered.

"And what can I do for you, caller?" The radio station was receiving a song request.

"Um, hi." Sherlock's face went ashen as he recognized Moriarty's voice. He released John's hand in an attempt to focus himself.

"What's your name, caller?"

"Jim. Obviously I have a request."

"Anything!"

Moriarty giggled. "Well, it's Valentine's Day, and there's someone special I'd like you to play a song for."

"Name it!" The man who looked like Moran-John was getting closer and Sherlock found himself starting to hyperventilate, barely able to get enough air to his head to focus.

"_Never Gonna Give You Up_ by Rick Astley."

"You're Rickrolling that special someone?" The announcer laughed.

"Well, it's our song, and I want him to remember all the special times we've had together."

"Sure thing!" The song began to play and Sherlock's mind closed into a dark tunnel, the terror of his rape and torture returning. The last thing he heard before blacking out completely was Moriarty, in person, from just behind them. "So nice to see you again, boys. Catch you around!"

John grabbed him by the hand and dragged him away from the radio stand. "We're not having today ruined, not by anyone, not even Jim Moriarty." Sherlock nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. "We're going somewhere else."

John lead him to the main road and hailed a cab. They got out just outside the city. Sherlock asked where they were, and John smiled. "Well, you showed me your favorite place, and I'm showing you mine." He linked him and strolled into the woods opposite the road.

They reached a small clearing, where a stream was running through. John climbed up two large rocks, gesturing to Sherlock to do the same. "Lie here." John tapped the rock next to him, and he looked up at the sky. The sun was only just shining through, and the woodland around them whispered quietly.  
>"I used to come here when things got bad at home."<p>

Sherlock's hands were shaking violently, clearly still on the verge of panic. It had taken him the majority of the trip to stop hyperventilating and come out of his near-fainting spell. Now the peace of nature was calming him somewhat, the babbling brook soothing him. His eyes were closed as he just listened to the forest and felt the breeze and sun on his face. "Thank you for showing me your personal heaven." He tried to smile. "It's a lot closer than Marseilles." He put one arm around John's shoulder, holding his left hand at the shoulder as if trying to have John support him physically as well as emotionally. "Don't forget that we still need to make my appointment with Doctor Hussey."

"I know," John smiled. "You know something? I'm incredibly happy right now. Just lying here with you. In fact, just you." He leaned over and kissed him. Sherlock smiled. John sat up and leaned over him, frowning slightly. "Tell me why you're in a relationship with me? I mean, look at you and, look at me." Sherlock frowned and shook his head, and mentioned something about them having this conversation before. "I don't understand it. A part of you is obsessively infatuated with me, and the other is my best friend. I'm in love with my best friend and I'm best friends with the obsessed part, and it makes no sense whatsoever." Sherlock nodded, quietly.

"Don't." Sherlock sat up, facing away from John. "Sorry." He rubbed his face and turned back around. "You know how much of a sore spot this is for me. I wish I could love you. I wish I could feel what Avery does." He put his hand on John's but didn't interlace his fingers. "You know why we're together. After what happened with Irene Adler, I needed to learn about romance and that area of emotions. It's always been the most foreign to me. It still is." He moved his hand to the side of John's face. "And after those three years, I felt…like a part of me had been ripped away. That's why I asked to take the exper—relationship further. I needed to know if it was just your friendship or if it was something more that I so desperately had to have." A tear rolled down his cheek. "I never meant to misuse you. I never wanted to hurt you. I see that I have and I don't know how to remedy it." Wiping his face, he realized a little quirk of what John had said. "You consider Avery a best friend, even though you've said time and time again that you hate him? That doesn't make sense to me. But it shouldn't matter, really. We don't choose who we form attachments to. They just happen."

A young couple on bicycles clattered past, making Sherlock turn to watch them, laughing as they raced through the forest. Their happiness together was obvious and pure, even a fleeting glimpse could tell Sherlock that much. He sighed sadly. "Why can't I love, John?"

"Best friends is the best I can give him, of course, he's not as close as us. I think I consider him a best friend now, after I've given him a chance. I don't know…" John sighed and flopped back onto the rock. "Do you want to love me? Or are you still experimenting?" Sherlock looked at him, tearfully. "Is it because if you say no, you think I'll leave?"

"Of course I want to. I don't want to be like my father." The last comment stung as it came out of Sherlock's mouth. "Mycroft loves. He insists that caring is dangerous and wrong, and to a large extent, it is, but I can tell that he loves me. Mother loved us. It's why she came back after leaving Father. Father…I never saw love from him. I saw defensiveness toward anyone who insulted Mycroft or Mother, but it wasn't love. He never used the word." He bit his lip. "I don't want to become him." He stared at the water, his head tilted and his eyes distant. "It _is _an experiment. Unfortunately I've made a cardinal error by trying to force the desired outcome of the experiment. I've not been objective. But no, I don't think you'll leave. Sentiment."

"Mm. Well, I love you. I'm not going to leave, no matter how long you want to carry on this… Experiment." Sherlock nodded, and looked at him sympathetically.  
>John hugged him tightly. "Don't worry about it, just enjoy yourself today. So, where do you want to go now?"<p>

Sherlock was running his hands through John's hair and smirked. "Getting shaggy. I can only guess at my own hair. It's been…what, Christmas since we last had haircuts? Before that, in my case." He checked his watch. "Well, after Doctor Hussey, at any rate. Since we ought to be headed that direction." He helped hoist John to his feet and headed for the main road.

"I like your hair how it is." John smiled, tugging at one of his curls. Sherlock put his arm around him whilst they waited for a cab.

When they were finally in a cab, John decided to bring Avery up. "I bought him a present, too. Of course, nothing big or special, just something to stop him from killing people." Sherlock smirked at him, and went on to say that no matter what it was, it wouldn't help.  
>"Mm. I thought a new art set might help him."<p>

"Don't know if that'll keep him from killing, but it might divert some of his other energy." Sherlock sighed. "And yes, I do need a haircut. I look like a Hippie. Though seeing as how it's Valentine's Day, I suppose it can wait a little longer."

John sat in the waiting room while Sherlock was in his session, and when he came out an hour later, he was thoughtful. They'd talked about how Avery was much calmer and more respectful since John had given him a chance, how the medication he was meant to be taking to suppress Avery had only served to mingle their minds in an unhealthy way, how he'd gotten completely drunk when he thought John and Mycroft were dead, and how all it had taken was a literal slap in the face to break him out of the delusion that they were just hallucinations.

"It's progress, I suppose," Hussey had said. "Considering that the last time you were here, you were on the verge of a breakdown."

Sherlock handed John the prescription for a new medication, one that was from an entirely different group. "Considering the standard for Avery suppression was set by cocaine, this had better start working," he muttered as they got in their cab, raising his eyebrows at John to let him call the destination—_home or haircut?_

"Baker street.." John smiled, really not wanting Sherlock to cut his hair. Sherlock frowned at him, but nodded.

When they got back, Louis was sleeping on the couch. "Louis," John sighed, and picked him up and put him on his lap. He and Sherlock stroked him as he purred appreciatively. "So, how are you coping with the whole, Louis thing?" John looked at Sherlock worriedly.

"What Louis thing?" Sherlock was confused. "He's a lovely cat, and I assume you named him after Uncle Louis in France, which is charming but I'm not sure why—" He caught sight of John's face. "That's not what you meant, was it?" John realized that Sherlock didn't know that Uncle Louis had died. He'd been in Moriarty's hands at the time and no one had told him once he'd gotten back. "John, what's wrong?"

"The reason we got this cat, no, the reason he's called Louis.. Is because, when Moriarty had you, your uncle passed away, peacefully. I couldn't tell you, because you were too fragile. Your aunt wants you to call her, but obviously you haven't been able to." Sherlock sat perfectly still. "I'm sorry, I thought Mycroft might have told you…" He tapped him on the hand, with a sad look. He'd given the speech in hospitals before, but it had never been this hard. "I'm really sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep, quick breath. He'd never actually lost anyone he cared about from childhood. Yes, he'd lost Natalia to that mobster, yes, his only university friend had been murdered, but this was different. This was like losing a part of your childhood. "Oh," was the only thing he could say, followed by a few moments of silence. "He was old. It was only a matter of time." He said it more to convince himself than John. "He was in his nineties. Hardly surprising. I'm just glad it was peacefully." Sherlock stroked the cat's ears. "I guess you're all I have left of him now, Louis." His voice was oddly calm, but very much in the present. He was silent for another few minutes, just petting Louis, but his creased forehead betrayed the fact that he was hurting. Suddenly he jumped from his seat and picked up his phone, shutting the door to his room. John could hear him speaking in French, but couldn't understand the words. However, the distress was real, and Sherlock spoke for hours to at least three people (one of whom was Mycroft) before returning to the living room and embracing John quietly.

"I'm sorry I didn't mention it sooner." Sherlock sighed and pulled away shaking his head. "I thought your brother would have mentioned it, really." Sherlock sat in the chair, in his thinking pose, for another few hours. John moved about, cleaning, cooking, even trying to speak to him, but there was nothing.

Mrs Hudson popped up for a brief moment, bringing their shopping, having a cup of tea, but Sherlock didn't move.

Finally, after over four hours, he got up and hugged John.

"You never think about it," Sherlock whispered in John's ear. "You meet people, make connections, allow your walls to come down, and never once think that one day, they'll be gone. And then of course, they do die because everyone does, and you realize how much it hurts and how much it's going to hurt to lose the ones you still have. And you want to close yourself off because you never want to hurt again." John realized that Sherlock was crying silently, just tears, nothing more. "I don't want pain. Promise you won't die. Not ever." He laughed pathetically. "That's an unreasonable demand. Promise that you won't hurt me by dying and leaving me to go on alone."

"I'll try my best," John laughed. "I don't plan on dying and leaving you, put it that way." Sherlock smiled weakly at him and sat down on the sofa. "Come on, we'll watch something of your choice to cheer you up." Of course, Sherlock chose _Pirates of the Caribbean,_ again.

"Why do you always choose this?" John laughed, poking him in the chest.

"I wanted to be a pirate as a child. I suppose the thought of living a life unfettered by rules still appeals to me." Sherlock shrugged. "Though I suppose you'd noticed that." He dozed off by the end of the film, though. It was late, he'd had a stressful day, and still wasn't sleeping right. John shook his head with a smile and shook him to wake up before they went to bed, sleeping in Sherlock's room tonight.

In the middle of the night, John awoke. Sleep paralysis, at least that's what he thought at first. Until he heard Moriarty's voice.

"Nice to see you're awake," he sneered. John couldn't respond but heard Sherlock breathing stressfully next to him and realized he was paralyzed, too. "You won't be able to get up," Moriarty continued. "An interesting drug, this little toy of mine. It paralyzes the body but heightens the senses." John heard the sound of a knife flicking open and started to hyperventilate as the memories which should never have been unlocked came flooding back to him. "Just making sure you have a memorable Valentine's night!" There were rough hands undressing him. Moran's hands. "Ooh, look like Sherlock's left his mark on you, too. And he's covered up my mark. Going to have to fix that." Cold steel met John's skin again as the M for Moriarty was re-etched into his chest and he was unable to scream. Sherlock began hyperventilating as he was moved about, too, also being stripped. "Oh, but I know what Sherlock likes." Moriarty moved his knife over to John's collarbone and sliced him in almost an autopsy Y (though nowhere near as deep). The blood was pooling on him and he felt ill. "I've had to give Sherlock an extra dose of my little potion to make sure he doesn't squirm. All those drugs have made him a bit resistant." John heard the faint high notes of music being played and he assumed (quite correctly) that Sherlock was being forced to hear music again. Then there was a sudden shock pressure—Sherlock had been flopped over top of him, and then it got worse. Moran did what he came here to do and there was a Moran-Sherlock-John sandwich, bouncing under Moran's command. John could feel Sherlock's tears falling, hot but silent. Then the song finished and Moran stood back up and redressed himself, leaving the detective and the soldier motionless.

"Now kiss!" Moriarty shoved their mouths together, open, breathing into each other, alternating between nose and mouth. Neither of them could move. There was a prick on John's toe. "And this is to make sure you sleep the rest of the night. It's nasty to wake up from." Then John fell unconscious, Sherlock's breathing through his own, desperately hoping it was just a nightmare.

But it wasn't. When John woke up in the morning light, Sherlock's breathing was still his own and the dried blood was sticking their naked forms together like glue. John gently peeled Sherlock off him, yelping slightly as the flesh was retorn, and went into the bathroom to try to patch himself up a bit, trying not to think about what had happened.

Louis began meowing insistently, almost frightened. John did his best to ignore him, but after two minutes of increasingly agitated meowing, John stormed back into Sherlock's room to see what the rucus was about. Louis was sitting by Sherlock's head, pawing at his nose as if trying to wake him, meowing every few seconds. And it was clear why. Sherlock wasn't breathing. He'd survived the night because of John's accidental rescue breathing, but he'd stopped breathing at all now. He did, however, have a pulse, but it was slowing.

John called an ambulance, straight away. They arrived and asked what had happened, and he had to give a detailed account, showing them his own wounds. They took Sherlock away and tended to John at home.

_Text:Mycroft_

_You said it was all sorted out, but something happened again last night. You promised me faithfully._

_-John._

John showered, avoiding his wounds, and went to the hospital. The nurse informed him that the police would want to be speaking to him before he saw Sherlock, and he had to wait for then in the waiting room.

"Explain what happened." John frowned.  
>"You know what happened. Jim Moriarty happened. You know where he is too, but you're refusing to do anything. Do your job."<p>

John got in to see Sherlock, who was awake. "What do you remember?" He mumbled, teary, going to his bedside.

Sherlock swallowed and when he spoke, it was in a terrified, almost childlike voice. "It was dark. They came and I couldn't move and I heard you panicking and I was panicking and then they hurt you. They put music on—headphones and then I couldn't hear you any more, but then they put me on top of you, and you were wet and sticky, like—like in France but it wasn't fun this time. And then—" His face scrunched up and he started to sob. "And then they raped me. Again. And you were underneath and I knew you were scared because you couldn't stop them and that made me more afraid and then they made us kiss but not like normal and then I passed out and you were breathing for me." He was holding John's arm desperately. "Don't leave me alone again, John." Sherlock was sobbing, not as freely as he'd done when he thought John and Mycroft were hallucinations, but fairly intensely all the same.

Mycroft entered the room, lips pursed, obviously furious and perfectly willing to take John's punch should he offer it. "I've fired the man who was on duty last night. I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. It won't happen again." He went to the other side of Sherlock's bed. "I'm here, Sherlock." He took Sherlock's free hand and held it tightly. "The doctors say you're to be released in an hour, provided you keep your oxygen tubes in for the rest of the day and that Doctor Hussey comes over at some point this afternoon. He'll be there at three." Sherlock nodded, still looking like a terrified child on the verge of hysteria.

John glared at Mycroft. "You think it's because he wasn't doing his job? No, it's because Moriarty can do whatever he wants without consequence." Mycroft shook his head and sat down.  
>"What more can I do? I've got people patrolling outside, twenty-four seven."<br>"It's not enough. You had him, locked up. You could have kept him in, but _you_ let him out. Look what he's done to your brother!" Mycroft looked down at his shoes, for once, he didn't have an answer.  
>"This is your fault, Mycroft." Sherlock protested, rather loudly, causing a nurse to come in, to remind them to be quiet.<p>

Sherlock's lip was quivering like a child on the verge of tears. Mycroft was so disturbed by this that his older-brother instincts kicked in and he instantly grabbed Sherlock's head and held it to his chest. "Shh, little brother. I'll make this right. No matter what I have to do."

"Don't say it like that. That's what Avery says." Sherlock had pulled away sharply. Mycroft stood, going so far as to kiss Sherlock on the top of the head. "I'll be back, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled onto his side and just watched John until the nurses said he was fit to be released. "John. Um. I should tell you something." They were being taken to the door, Sherlock with tubes and an oxygen tank ("Until we're sure he can breathe correctly," the nurses said.) "I want to see my father."

John nodded and Sherlock gave the cab driver his address. John asked if Sherlock was sure. "Yes. Before Avery wakes up. He's…he's hiding. He's mad at himself. And Sherlock's hiding, too."

They arrived at the hotel in which Sherlock's father was staying, not elaborating further on what he'd said. When they knocked on his door, and it opened, the first thing the elder Holmes said was "Drugs finally got to your central nervous system?" Sherlock's response was to hug his father, tearfully.

"I won't forgive you, father, but I do accept you. You weren't the best of fathers but you were always there. You never left. I'm sorry I wasn't who you wanted me to be. We're both broken, but one of us has to at least try to accept the other for who we are. I realize that it hurt to see me as something other than what you wanted, something other than the perfect son, but I want you to know that I tried my best."

"What brought—oh, God." Holmes the elder broke away from the hug and took Sherlock's face, studying it carefully. "Are you…are you dying, too?"

"No, he's not." John snapped. "He's going to be fine. Just a fright and a dose of paralytics." Mr Holmes nodded. "There's somebody after us, actually." Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes. "But it's no problem. He's being dealt with."  
>Sherlock's father asked him if he'd read the letter. He'd told him that he'd not been ready to. "Destroy it, I was upset when it was written." Sherlock agreed, but John knew full well that he was going to read it as soon as they got home.<p>

He felt rather out of place whilst they talked, and he decided to text Mycroft, asking him about what he was planning to do.

_Text: Mycroft_

_So, what's your plan, now?_

_You need to have people covering for the people covering us. Take the army approach._

_-John._

Sherlock was smiling, by now, talking to his dad about his childhood and school. John shifted, uncomfortably.

"What time is it?" John was snapped out of his thoughts by Sherlock actually tugging at his sleeve. "It's time to meet Hussey at the flat, isn't it?" Sherlock hugged his father, much to Mr. Holmes's confusion, and as Sherlock wheeled away his oxygen tank, the elder man pulled John aside.

"Are you sure he's alright? He hasn't acted like this since he was nine." John nodded and said he was, on his word as a doctor.

When they were riding the lift back down to ground level, Sherlock spoke quietly: "I said earlier that Sherlock and Avery were both hiding. I don't know who I am. I haven't thought of a name." He held John's hand, but it was different. It was more like a schoolboy on the way to class, holding hands with his best friend. "I'll think of a name soon. I hope."

Not-Sherlock-or-Avery sat quietly the whole way home, occasionally mouthing as if testing a name. Just as they got out, as Dr. Hussey's cab pulled up behind, he said quite enthusiastically "Captain Liam! Yes, that's who I'll be. And you're my first mate." He grinned.

"Well, hello Captain Liam." John smiled, it was impossible not to. "Ah, doctor. There seems to be another personality.. This is, uh, Liam." At this point, he'd ran up to Doctor Hussey, greeting him enthusiastically. Doctor Hussey smiled back, but as soon as he turned around to smile at John, he frowned, confused.

They went inside, and Hussey asked Liam questions. "So, how do you feel?", "What are you thinking?" etc.  
>Liam was sitting on John's lap at this point, hugging him tightly whilst talking to Hussey.<p>

"The inside of my nose itches." Liam wiggled his nose as if to demonstrate. "But they said I couldn't take the tubes out for the rest of the day because they're not sure I can breathe properly after…after last night." Instantly his face had changed from a childish smile to a face haunted. He shook his head. "I don't want to talk about last night." But Doctor Hussey insisted. Liam squeezed John even tighter. "No. No, I don't want to."

"You need to, Liam." Hussey moved closer. Liam looked up at John for encouragement before he began. "I woke up. I woke up? Sherlock woke up. I'll say I. It's faster. I woke up and couldn't move. I thought it was like when you wake up from a bad dream but then I heard M…I heard the Spider Monster's voice. He was talking to John, saying things about how Sherlock had left his mark on him and how I needed twice the dose of poison because of the other drugs." Liam's voice was growing more and more strained. "And then I heard a knife open and sounds like an autopsy. Then—" He choked, tearfully. "Then the Tiger Monster was taking my clothes off and putting earbuds in my ears and played that song again and I was so scared and I couldn't move and then I was on top of John and he was sticky and wet and then the Tiger Monster did things to me and it hurt and I wanted to die because it was hurting so much but I could tell that Avery wanted to fight but he couldn't fight and the worst bit was that I couldn't do anything at all." He was on the verge of hysteria, but John cradled him and rocked him gently and it calmed him. "And then the Spider Monster said that he wanted us to kiss and put our mouths together and something pricked me and I couldn't breathe but it was okay because John could breathe for me. And then I blacked out." He was still hysterical, but now he got it out of his system, he was tired and John was soothing him, rocking and shushing. "I don't want Avery to come back. I'm scared of him. Just as much as the Monsters. I like being me. Sherlock's cold inside and lonely." Doctor Hussey told him to write it down and he'd talk about it next time.

"Watch him, John. The first few hours after a new personality forms are always unstable. It's strange that Liam seems fully-formed, though. Normally it's a slow process." John nodded as Hussey picked up his coat and left.

"John," said Liam quietly. "May I have ice cream?"

"Sure." John tried to smile, but memories of the night before were flooding back to him. "Uhh, I don't think we have any in, I think Mrs Hudson might have ice cream downstairs, I'll go and ask her." Liam jumped up and grabbed onto John's hand.

Mrs Hudson welcomed them in, and Liam sat down on the sofa, flicking the TV over to the cartoons. She frowned, and beckoned John into the kitchen. "What's going on?"  
>"Another personality. He's.. a <em>child. <em>He's called Liam, this personality." She frowned, and laughed.  
>"He is one confusing man. Boy. I don't know." She waved her arms.<br>"I'm going to sit with him, I need to keep an eye on him." He sat next to him, and Liam immediately hugged him. He said they were best friends forever, in a rather childish voice.  
>"Yes, we are." John smiled.<p>

Mrs Hudson came in with a large bowl of ice cream. "Here you go.. Liam? Is it? Yes." Liam smiled and thanked her for the ice cream, and continued watching cartoons.

**John's blog:**

So another personality has emerged.

That's three now.

Sherlock, Avery and now Liam.

Sherlock, you all know.

Avery, you've read about, he's the emotional and somewhat problematic version of Sherlock.

Liam, however is the child-like version of Sherlock.

This is getting rather confusing, even for me.

**Liam's blog:**

Doctor Hussey said to write about Sherlock and Avery.

Sherlock thinks he doesn't love John because he doesn't feel warm and soft inside like I do when he's around. But if he didn't love him, why would he keep letting himself get hurt so that John is safe? He thinks he's broken because he has never felt the fuzzy love like I feel or the fiery love like Avery feels, but he just doesn't notice that he has his own way to love. He likes to protect John and he likes it when John protects him and I think that is love, too. But I'm worried about him because he's so cold inside, like when you put your hand on the window in the middle of a rainy cold day and it sort of reaches into your soul and makes you feel cold, too. He shouldn't be so sad. He hasn't been happy in too long. He thinks he's losing his mind, and he's more scared of that than he is of anything else, even losing John. I remember being him and sometimes just wanting to claw out my mind because it hurt to feel it melting. But we have John and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and they're enough to keep him from trying to die.

Avery frightens me. I remember being him and I remember the things he thinks about and they give me nightmares. He's like acid. He's violent and hurtful, and even when he's trying to be nice, he thinks about bad things. I don't like being Avery. It's good that now I don't remember what he does when I turn into him. I think I'm more scared of him than I am of the Monsters. But I think now that John has tried to make friends with him, he'll be a little better because he doesn't like it when John is upset and he wants to keep being friends with him.

But I don't understand why Sherlock thinks he needs cocaine and Avery thinks he needs to smoke to be happy. Why can't they both get some ice cream? That makes me happy. And John. He makes me happy, too. And if John bought him/them/me/us ice cream, and ate some too, we'd be very happy together!

A new cartoon came on and suddenly Liam hurled his bowl of ice cream at the telly with a scream before curling up next to John, crying. It took John a few minutes, by which time Mrs. Hudson had switched off the telly before John figured out why he'd reacted like that.

The theme tune had been one of those in the blaring cacophony that had tormented Sherlock in Moriarty's test chamber not two weeks ago. Now Liam was shaking and crying and terrified. "Don't let the Monsters get me," he muttered. "Don't leave. Stay here and protect me."

"I won't, I won't. Your big brothers looking after it, it'll be okay." He hugged him, rocking him back and fourth. It took him about half an hour to calm him down before he carried him upstairs. There were small reemergence's of the other personality's coming through, probably out of fear, but he stayed Liam apart from that.  
>"What do you want to do now?" Liam suggested drawing, but he imagined what Avery would say and shook his head. "Avery wouldn't like you touching his art stuff, I don't think. Something else? We could bake cupcakes."<p>

Liam shook his head. "I don't want to make them, I want to eat them." He was still quite scared, the nightmare visions of John and Mycroft being killed treading on the edge of his awareness. But he was trying to be brave and show John that he was happy. He hugged Louis who meowed in protest because Liam was hugging him a bit too tightly. "Sorry, Louis."

Mrs. Hudson brought up a bag. "Thought you might like something to colour with. They were for my nephews, but Ruth doesn't bring them around much any more." She handed Liam a large box of crayons and some colouring books, and he grinned, hugged her, and took them and instantly started colouring.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" She nodded, smiling, but the instant she looked away, John could see that there was a tear in her eye.

"I don't like seeing him like this," she whispered to John. "It's not healthy, it's not right."

"I know. It'll be okay soon, you watch." She left, muttering to herself.  
>"Okay, Liam. I'm going to make you cupcakes, you come and sit at the table, watch out for the lab equipment.." He said, moving the microscope.<p>

When he was done, he decorated them the best he could, with ships and skulls, even if they were a bit wonky.  
>"Here," He put them in front of him, laughing. Liam looked ecstatic, which was more than he'd seen from Sherlock or Avery in months.<p>

"Pirate cupcakes!" Liam stuffed one in his mouth. "Trshts buht flt," he said, but started laughing at John's look. He chewed and swallowed. "Tastes a bit flat." Then he giggled because he could feel the icing on his nose. "Napkins are boring," he said as John passed one over. Liam wiped his mouth on his sleeve, grinning. Then he frowned as John handed him a glass of water and one of his new pills. "Do I have to take the medicine?" He took John's stern glare to be a yes, and reluctantly he swallowed it.

"Sorry, it keeps everything under control, sort of." Liam nodded. "I'm not sure what kids like to do, I've never had one or looked after one." He smiled and hugged John, and then went into the living room to watch _Pirates of the Caribbean _again.

When he was done jumping around the living room, imitating Captain Jack Sparrow, he sat down, quietly.  
>"Liam?" John asked, but he didn't reply. "What's going on?" He looked up at him with frightened eyes, like Sherlock. "…Sherlock?" He shook his head. "What's happening?"<p>

"There's another one," Sherlock said, stressed. "But…I like Liam. He I can remember. He's so happy, in spite of the darkness. I don't understand." He put his hand to his chest. "My heart's racing." Sherlock winced. "And you shouldn't let Avery smoke, not at all. Shared body, remember? What addicts one will addict all three. A bit hypocritical, considering the cocaine, but I don't want—" He winced again, breathing hard. "What did you let Liam take the oxygen off for?" Sherlock was reattaching himself to the tank, eyes having trouble focussing. "Of course. Any chemical I'm supposed to get inside me fouls me up and anything I'm not meant to keeps me—" He clenched his jaw. "I think this one's out, too." He lay down on the sofa, dizzy and weak, and nauseous. "I think it's time for bed. Right here on the sofa."

"Sorry." John winced. "Yeah, I think it's wise. He's been running about." John brought him a blanket and curled up with him. "I miss you when you're gone." He murmured, whilst Sherlock took deep breaths. "I really do." He turned to look at him and gave a grimace. "I wish that this wasn't happening." and for once, John was the one who was scared.

"Me too," Sherlock whispered. "But we can't change what led to it. The best I can hope for is that your brain decides to block the traumatic events out. Mine won't." He kissed John's nose hesitantly—it was a gesture he didn't think he'd ever get used to. "We'll be alright. Somehow. We may have to live with me going the same way as Uncle Thom, but we'll be fine." He flashed back to his uncle, screaming at him out of paranoia and shut his eyes. "No," he said firmly. "I will not become Uncle Thom." He held onto John quietly well into the night before finally falling asleep, breathing laboriously, but otherwise apparently sleeping restfully. John could feel Sherlock's pulse in his arms, hard and fast as it thumped against his side.

"It's going to be okay, I promise." John was getting tired of hearing himself promise that to Sherlock, when there was no guarantee. He couldn't sleep, not after what had happened when he did, and he felt as if this was all somehow his fault. Sherlock mumbled in his sleep, and curled up closer to John. He seemed to be frightened in his sleep, sobbing and whimpering every so often and digging his nails into John like he needed to keep a hold of him.  
>"Shh, calm down, I'm here."<p>

At five in the morning, just as John was starting to drift off, in spite of himself, Sherlock awoke with a tremendous gasp. John's eyes snapped open and he saw Sherlock's staring back at his in almost blind panic. He was dripping with sweat, gasping. "Don't die again," he said frantically. "Stop dying." He continued saying things like that, almost manically, but devolving to an exhausted mutter as he fell back asleep. "Need m'guardian angel," was the last thing he said before completely falling asleep after fifteen minutes.

He woke up again at eight thirty. When the first thing he saw was John, he smiled. "Sometimes, despite all evidence, I find myself wondering if I haven't just invented you to be everything I've needed." Sherlock disentangled himself from John, and took the oxygen lines out. "To see if I need them today," he said. "You should have slept. I know why you didn't. But as a doctor, you should know that people need their rest." He looked at John pointedly. "Take your medicine," he ordered. "Talking of medicine, I think tonight I need to take the sleeping pills again. I don't care what you say, I'm sick of having these nightmares. My mind was already ragged and that's just making it worse." He frowned and put his oxygen tubes back in, breathing hard. "Don't they have backpacks or something for these? God, I need a case! Anything to keep my mind from ripping itself to shreds!"

"Fine. But a full sleeping pill. I'll text Lestrade now, if you like." Sherlock nodded and smiled, stretching and yawning.

_Text:Lestrade_

_Any new cases? Everything is under control now, he could use one. Text his mobile as soon as one comes up. Thanks, - John Watson._

Sherlock's phone buzzed ten minutes later, which brought the largest of smiles to his face. John swallowed down his own medicine with a sigh, and picked up the newspaper as Sherlock paced the room on the phone.

"You do realize I'm only taking this because I'm desperate," Sherlock was saying to Lestrade. "Normally this sort of thing is far bene—yes, well, e-mail me the information and I'll get on it." He strode triumphantly into the living area, eyes glittering with life for the first time in ages—himself and not Liam or Avery.

"Minor government clerk found dead near an expensive toy boutique, shot by a sniper—but don't worry, can't be Moran, not his style, shot in the medulla oblongata, as opposed to the heart. No children or known young acquaintances of any sort. So why would he be near a toy shop far out of his price range and who would want to kill someone with so little power and no known enemies?" He was smiling broadly, and darted off to his bedroom to get changed. He reached the end of his oxygen tube tether and it yanked back on his head. He turned and scowled at it before dragging it along behind him. "I could have sworn I heard something about a portable version of these things."

It took ten minutes before he came out of his room again, white shirt today. "Or should I just ditch them for today?" It was as if the conversation had gone unbroken. He raised an eyebrow at John, clearly wanting his medical opinion.

"Oh, yeah. You only needed to keep it on for a few hours. I can come with you today if you like, or if you'd rather it, I'll stay here?" John scratched his head, confused. "What day is it? I've lost track of time." Sherlock frowned at him, and crouched down in front of him, confused. "Honestly, I don't know if it's day or night these days, I feel so confused." Sherlock patted him on the hand.

"It's early Saturday morning. Get dressed," Sherlock said and waited in his chair, hands together and eyes closed, clearly thinking. The medicine from the previous night hadn't yet completely gone from his system, so he was unbothered by hallucinations of the other parts of his mind.

When John finished getting ready, he found Sherlock on the computer, checking the case files that Lestrade had sent him. He heard John come into the room and instantly leapt up from his chair, grabbing his coat and scarf. "Coming?" As if by magic, the doorbell rang, their cab arriving on perfect schedule. Sherlock bounded into the cab and gave the address of the toy shop. "If Liam decides to make an appearance, do me a favour and keep him from embarrassing me."

"I will." John sighed. "He doesn't mean to embarrass you, Sherlock." Sherlock checked his phone and tutted. "Oh, Liam wanted to play games on it. I told him you wouldn't mind. If Avery surfaces I'm just going to take him home, we can't risk it." Sherlock nodded.

When they arrived at the crime scene, Sherlock was pacing, thinking and muttering, whilst John stood without purpose as usual. Sherlock didn't ask for his opinion at all, and barely spoke to him.  
>"Is there a point in my being here?"<p>

Sherlock looked up from the place where the man had been killed. "Of course there is, don't be stupid." He waved his hand. "Conductor of light, remember? Sometimes you make the most apt observations that I miss." He lowered his voice so Lestrade couldn't hear. "Besides, if Liam or Avery decide to show up, you're the only one who can take charge."

It took an hour for him to inspect the scene itself, punctuated with moments of eerie stillness, and John knew it was because the medicine was wearing off and he could start to hear Avery and probably Liam. Eventually, he ran inside and demanded to speak with the manager, who seemed so stereotypical that for a moment, John felt like he was in a cartoon. The man was actually wearing a bowler hat that matched his three-piece suit. Sherlock asked if he'd seen the victim before, and the man said he hadn't—until his assistant reminded him that he'd been in the store once previously.

"What did he want?"

"Just a toy ball."

"Show me." Sherlock and John were led to a display of striped balls. Sherlock stood, examining them closely, committing every detail to memory. "Thank you," he said, flashing a smile. He was headed to the door when he froze and turned to look at John. He pointed to a shelf which had obviously very expensive hand-made wooden toys. Pirates. "May I have one of those, please, John? Please?" It was obviously Liam who was giving John puppy eyes.

"Yes, and then we're going home. I'm texting Lestrade."

_Text:Lestrade_

_Bit of a problem, we have to go. He'll work when he's better. Slow process, thank you._

_-John Watson_

They bought the toy and Liam took John by the hand, excitedly as they strolled out of the store. Avery was trying to get through, but John knew this wasn't the best time. He'd try something on and it just wasn't acceptable with Liam surfacing too.

"Thank you, John!" Liam was skipping along the road, holding John's hand as if John were an older brother or father. He was grinning and laughing, chattering about how his new pirate toy was going to be called One-Eyed Seth, but he suddenly shuddered and staggered. "Sorry. I don't feel quite well." He clutched his head. "I'm sort of dizzy. I don't think I've eaten anything in a while." Liam frowned. "'Cause I know that when I don't eat, sometimes I get dizzy and tired." John realized that in fact, neither of them had eaten anything since the cupcakes, and nothing substantial in days.

"We'll go and get something, I hadn't noticed that we hadn't eaten. You choose." He chose Mcdonald's, which didn't surprise John one bit.

He stuffed down two packets of chips, a burger, an icecream, chicken nuggets and a large coke.  
>"You're going to be sick." John sighed, but Liam jumped about anyway, stuffing more chips into his mouth. After he'd eaten everything, Liam slumped into his chair and hugged John. "Come on, Liam. Let's go home." He had to promise him that he could watch <em>Pirates of the Caribbean<em> when they got home, so he'd get into a taxi.

"John, may I please have some new clothes? These fit too tightly. And they itch." Liam was using the puppy eyes again, but his eyes blurred and focussed again. He grabbed John's hand. "I think I'm going to be sick," he said in Avery's half-snarl. In fact, he was sick the instant they'd plodded up the stairs and into the bathroom. "Damn it." He wiped his mouth, slightly pale, and as he came back into the living area, he swore again when he saw Liam's drawing of Louis. "Prick keeps using my stuff." He wrote a rather angry note and attached it to his drawing utensils. "I can remember what Liam and Sherlock do. Sherlock can't remember what I do but he knows what Liam does. Liam can't remember either." Avery scratched his head. "I need a cigarette. And a haircut." He opened the drawer nearest the refrigerator and took out a pack of cigarettes. "And," he said, lighting it, "If the brat insists on getting new clothes, it should be a full makeover day. You know. Hair and clothes." He took a long drag, blowing the smoke into the air. "I hate kids."

"He's not so bad. He's just like I expected a kid to be. He treats me like a father, it's a little strange." John sat down at the table. "Fine, but I don't know what to buy for kids. I'll have to see when we get there. You dress much the same as Sherlock, so Liam is the only one I really have to search for. Shall we go into town? But on one condition," He looked at him sternly, "You stay by my side, you don't speak to anybody, and most of all, you do _not_ grab anyone who pisses you off. You have to act normal." Avery sighed and blew smoke in his face.

"Oh, I won't grab just anyone," Avery sneered. "Only Moriarty's associates. I promise." He paused. "It was a joke. Mostly." He quietly smoked for another few minutes before stamping the cigarette out in the ashtray he'd stolen from Buckingham Palace. "As for what to buy for Liam, you'll have to hope he comes around for that. But I'll do my best to behave. I do have to talk to the hairdresser, though. Well, I guess I don't, now I come to think of it. Been using the same one for years and haven't varied my hair yet." He scowled at John as they headed down the stairs. "And you don't have to treat me like I'm some sort of animal. You did use the term best friend and it's really annoying when you try to…control me."

He hailed a cab and, as per John's direction, spoke only to give the location of the barber shop. Once they got there, Sherlock's usual hairdresser was there and she smiled. "Haven't seen you in a few months," she smiled.

"Been busy," answered Avery curtly. He was tense as she washed his hair, no doubt unwilling to relinquish power. As the radio came on, he snapped at her to turn it off—the DJ was announcing '80s Hour and Avery knew it would be trouble if it was left on. She was startled, but turned it off anyway. He was extremely uptight as his hair was being cut, long chunks of almost-black falling to the floor in clumps. One of the other women turned the music back on, but softly. "I said turn that damned radio the hell off!" He turned his head to look at the offender, eyes full of fire and possibly fear. She was certainly afraid and obliged. But it was too late—the song that had been playing was one of the ones Moriarty had played for him and now even Avery was fighting to contain tears of terror, shaking slightly.

"Is everything alright?"

"No," he replied. "Just do your damn job, woman. You're being paid to cut my hair, not to chat." The woman looked at John, worried, as if asking _What's gotten into him?_

"I'm sorry." John muttered, slipping another twenty pounds into her hand. Avery snarled but stayed quiet.

When they walked out, Avery lit up again. "Well, lets walk to the usual shop where you buy clothes.." Avery took his hand with a half smile and walked on with him, blowing smoke at people on the way past.

He picked out the tightest of shirts for himself, and some looser ones for Sherlock. He did the same with the trousers. He got a new coat and a black scarf, and a pair of heavy looking boots.

They got to the t-shirt section, and it wasn't hard to find some things that Liam would like. John settled for some _Pirate of the Caribbean_ t-shirts, and some comic book ones. He didn't buy much more, because he had no clue what to get.

"Shall we go home?" John sighed, tiredly. Avery nodded, and lit up once again.

"That wasn't fair. That bloody wasn't fair." Avery was still stewing over the incident in the barber shop. "But of course, that was the fucking point, that's why he chose the hits of the '80s. He said as much." He was shaking, too. "Pardon my language," he sneered at the cabbie who was giving him looks. "Fucking Moriarty and his fucking games. Literally." He was going to go through his cigarettes at an alarming rate if he kept this up. It was almost down to the filter by the time they got back to Baker Street. Avery stormed up the stairs and sprawled on the sofa, lighting his next cigarette. "That was upsetting," he said, stating the obvious, long swirls of poisonous smoke floating up from his face.

"Mm. I can tell." John sighed, and he almost fell into the chair. He went to put the television on, but Avery objected to it. "Fine. So what on earth am I meant to do?" Avery shrugged with a wink, but John pulled out a book instead. He sneezed, and his ears started ringing. "Ugh, I think I'm coming down with the flu." He groaned, with a cough. Avery sat up and went over to look at him, to see if this was true. John's face felt red hot, and his eyes were burning. "I need to sleep." He got up and went to lie on his bed. Avery came to join him, which he was grateful for, because it was better than him running out of the flat doing god knows what.

"Oh, look, I'm sharing your contagious breath," Avery muttered, breath tasting like the cigarettes he was still smoking. He was slowing down a bit, but still smoking far too much. Suddenly he sat up in a fit of coughing. Once that passed, he gasped "I asked you not to let him smoke." Sherlock stamped out the cigarette and looked over at John. "Are you ill?" He felt John's head and instantly went to get the thermometer. It was one of the old mercury thermometers, so it was going to take a few minutes to measure. "How long have I been Avery? Last thing I remember, you were in the cab with Liam. Never mind, you can answer in nine minutes." He lay back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his breathing dangerously shallow. He gasped again. "I think I need the oxygen tubes. Between a weakened diaphragm and Avery's smoking, I'm finding it a little hard to breathe." He went to the living room and put the tubes back in. "I see you've been shopping. And I finally got that haircut."

"Yeah," John spluttered. "Ugh, my head really hurts." His throat was burning as he spoke. "You've been Avery for about three hours. He snapped at the hairdresser." Sherlock came in and sighed, rolling his eyes. He climbed into the bed, with the oxygen next to him, putting one arm around John. "You're going to get sick." John mumbled, worriedly. Sherlock shrugged, and pulled him closer. "I can't remember the last time I got the flu."

"I've never had it. I suppose that makes this all the more dangerous, but it doesn't matter." Sherlock looked at John, quite worriedly, and took the thermometer from his mouth. "38.4°. Bit sudden onset, though." He rose and went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. "I have to sleep," he explained. "Sleeping pill. But I'll be right next to you, should something go wrong." He swallowed it and crawled into John's bed, cradling him protectively, but silently.

"Okay," John sniffled. Sherlock kissed him on the top of the head before drifting off to sleep. John didn't sleep much, because he was trying to stay awake as much as he could. If he had a full nights sleep, anything could happen.

Unexpectedly, he got a text.

_Sleep, Watson._

_The building is surrounded and protected, take my word._

_-Mycroft._

John drifted off with ease, after that.

John was woke up by Sherlock sitting on the bed playing his violin. "Mmf, good morning." He croaked, his throat felt red raw. He tried to get up, but the room was spinning and he just fell to the floor. "Ugh," he whimpered, as he got back onto the bed.

"Drink this," Sherlock said, handing him a glass of orange juice. "I'm sure I don't need to sing the praises of ascorbic acid to you of all people." He was feeling refreshed after sleeping under the influence of the sleeping pill. "In a bit, you're going to take your temperature again. If it's still as high as it was, or higher, I'm calling to make an appointment with a doctor. No idea which, because I've not been physically ill since my trek around Europe, but—" His nose twitched. "Are you okay, John? Please don't feel bad. You need to be safe." He twitched again and suddenly he was ripping off John's shirt. "Infected," he said after inspecting John's partially-healed wounds. "What in the world made us think he'd used a sterile knife?" Suddenly, he looked confused. "Ah. Avery. Pretty nasty infection. I'm going to call straightaway." He picked up his phone and made an appointment at the hospital, for the doctor who had attended John's wounds. "Appointment at noon. Don't bother getting dressed, you can stay in your pyjamas, should you feel it necessary."

"I don't understand, the nurses cleaned them," John mumbled, feeling rather sick at the thought. Sherlock shook his head, complaining about stupid some nurses can be. John ran to the bathroom to throw up. He came out pale, paler than Sherlock, and then collapsed.

When he woke up, Sherlock was speaking to somebody, a doctor, probably. He was still in the flat, but his shirt was open and he couldn't recognize which room he was in.  
>"S'going on?" John gasped out.<br>"John, you've got a very bad infection. You're going to have to start a course of Antibiotics and antiseptic creams." John groaned and turned over, realizing his was on the couch. It was the closest to where he'd passed out, so Sherlock must have only been able to drag him there.

Sherlock thanked the doctor and he left. He urged John to take his first pill, with a worried tone in his voice.

In fact, he practically shoved it towards John and handed him a glass of water. If it'd been Avery, he probably would have literally crammed it down John's throat. John could feel Louis's nose, cold against his relatively hot hand, as the cat sniffed him. Sherlock gave John the thermometer again, and this time it read at 40°. It was easy to see the change from Sherlock to Avery this time as his face contorted and he threw the thermometer across the room. "I'm going to kill him. I mean it." He was shaking with rage.

John's next few hours were hazy. Avery, ranting about how he was going to kill Moriarty—right down to the exact number of inches wide the gash in his throat was going to be. Sherlock, making himself tea. Avery again, kissing John's forehead, vowing that if John died, more people than one were going to die. Liam, curled up against him, sobbing, begging John not to leave him all alone. Louis jumping on top of John and being shooed off, settling for curling up on his feet instead. Sherlock talking in low voices with Mrs. Hudson—or to be more precise, Mrs. Hudson ordering Sherlock to bed and him refusing. One of them sitting by the sofa on the table, holding his hand. The flat was empty at one point. Sherlock playing quietly on the violin, composing what sounded oddly like a lullaby.

At some point in mid-afternoon, he felt gentle poking on his shoulder. Liam sat with a bowl of ice cream, offering it to John. "You're too hot so I got you some ice cream to help you cool off." He held it out. "Please eat it."

**Sherlock's blog:**

I've noticed I transition more frequently with increased stress.

John's ill—very seriously—and I find that I change dominant personalities every fifteen to thirty minutes. Which is distracting if one moment, you're making tea and the next you're standing by the sofa. Liam's got it worst because he can't remember what either of the other two do. For him, it's jumping from terrified sobbing to standing in the kitchen an hour later in front of a boiling kettle.

There's no logical pattern to the changes other than the time. It's not a standard SherlockAveryLiam or anything. No way to predict who's next.

It's making it hard to work, as well. Neither Avery nor Liam seem particularly interested in solving a homicide and because of that, I've slowed to a near-halt. I suppose I should let the other two tend to John while I focus on my work—that way both will be accomplished.

Look at me, talking about this as if it were normal. That in and of itself is distressing. I've only had Avery in my head for two months, and Liam for less than half a week. Has it really been that little time? And already I almost accept it. I can't keep thinking about it. I have to turn my mind outward before I go completely mad. Maybe then, I can live with sharing my brain with a serial killer and a child.

"I will, thank you, Liam." John tried to smile. Liam curled up on his legs, rather than his chest, like a cat. Louis saw this and padded off, climbing onto the table to sleep. Avery came through every so often, and kissed up Johns leg, but it was mostly Liam, with no sign of Sherlock.

Every time John passed out, Avery would be over him, slapping him awake. "I'm, sorry. I feel awful." He climbed onto the sofa with him and hugged him, snuggling into him. "Avery, what should I do?" He mumbled.

"How the hell should I know?" This was plainly something Avery didn't know how to deal with. "When I was a child, I was always the one who got sick. Once every five years. And Mycroft tended to me. It was only after he went off to university that I started growing ill more frequently, and that was largely because of the co—" He hesitated, almost imperceptibly. "—ssible that he was working on an exper…imental…hal…lucenogen…ic. This is growing irritating." Sherlock was back and John kissed him for it. "Mmmf," Sherlock said. "Been out for some time, apparently." He sighed. "I'm having more gaps. I'm starting to not be able to remember being Liam." He inspected John's face. "Has Avery been hurting you?" He could see quite plainly that he had. There was a note of urgency in his voice. "Never mind. Turn on your back." Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen, returning, but pausing mid-step. He looked down at what he was holding—the antiseptic cream—and then back at John. "Oh." He shuffled over to John (Liam's walk) and frowned at the Y-shaped inflamed and infected wounds. Liam seemed like he was about to cry, and then gently kissed the point where the three lines met. "To make it feel better," he explained before opening the jar of cream and starting to rub it tenderly into John's wounds.

John stroked his head. "It's going to be okay. I'm just ill. I'll get better. Are you hungry?" Liam giggled, and said something about him being so selfless. "I just want to make sure you eat." He curled back onto his legs when he'd finished with the cream.

John dropped off, his mind swirling with colours of doubt and confusion, sort of black and blue. He woke up to Avery kissing his face, begging him to wake up.  
>"What?" He croaked, painfully. "Oh god, I feel so bad, help."<p>

"You're coming to hospital. Now. Your temperature is 41.6°." Avery lifted him and slung him over his shoulder, muttering darkly. He hoisted him into Mycroft's car (the older brother had personally driven to Baker Street) and they sped off. Mycroft was attempting to comfort John, saying that although their trip would be longer, he was going to get the best care money could pay for. Avery was holding John's hand desperately, and Mycroft made some not-entirely-polite comment at which Avery retorted viciously. The rest of the trip was silent.

When they checked John in, he was taken to an emergency cooling facility—essentially they dunked him in icewater until his body temperature was at 38.5°. He was returned to the ICU semiconscious, words and sounds a complete blur. The first thing he made out properly was Mycroft's voice.

"Sit down, brother!" His voice was sharp, but his second statement was kinder. "You're agitating me."

"How do you expect me to rest when John's infection has brought him to a state of hyperpyrexia?" Frantic footsteps.

"If you don't sit down, I shall have the nurses sedate you."

Sherlock (and it was Sherlock) gasped his strange panicked_ I don't know what to do_ sound and eventually sat down in the chair immediately beside John's bed. "If you don't find Moriarty," Sherlock whispered to Mycroft, "Avery is going to—I don't think I need to elaborate further."

"I'm working on it, Sherlock. You know I am."

"Didn't stop him from kidnapping and torturing me. Didn't stop him from ra…" His voice dropped again. "…from raping me for the second time in three months. You're meant to be protecting me. You're not doing a very good job."

"Sherlock—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses, Mycroft." The nurse popped her head in the door and shushed the two brothers. "I just want to be able to sleep at night without worrying about Moriarty or Avery or even myself." The strain in his voice was clear. "I need the stability of what I had before the Fall."

Liam/Avery/Sherlock's blog:

Liam: John's got worse and now he's in hospital.

I'm scared. I'm so scared I think I might explode. He's too hot. He's boiling inside. He was 41.6° and we took him to the hospital (Mycroft drove I think but I don't remember because I wasn't in front). They had to take him to a room where they put him in ice water and he's in another room now and I've never seen him look like this and it scares me. It's scary enough that I think I might need medicine to calm me down because all I can think about is what if he doesn't get better? What if he just gets hotter and hotter and dies? I know it can happen. It happens to people in the summer all the time, but not from infections I don't think. Mycroft keeps telling me to breathe calmly but I can't and I'm crying and I'm trying not to which just makes it worse.

I hope this is all a bad dream. I don't think it is, though.

Avery: for once, I agree with you. when I do catch up to Moriarty, I'm going to give him every ounce of what he deserves and to hell with getting caught.

if there's one thing you don't do, it's mess with the people I love.

Sherlock: Mycroft threatened to sedate me if I don't calm down. I have the feeling that's exactly what's going to be required. If he doesn't get better quickly, I'm probably going to end up having a breakdown. Or worse. So much for having a handle on my emotions.

I feel like I'm going to be sick at any moment, so I keep pacing. It doesn't help that the only thing I've had to eat the last few days has been ice cream. Liam's been the only one with an appetite and you generally don't leave a seven-year-old to fend for himself.

Mind and body, both suffering at the pain of the heart. You could write a poem about that.

John could feel the cuts in his flesh burning. "Avery," He gasped, in pain, not knowing who was around. "Liam, Sherlock, whoever it is, help me." His vision was blurred, and his eyes felt hot. "Please," His words sounded slurred, agonized and sharp. He wasn't aware of his surroundings, just of the searing pain seeping through his chest.  
>"Help me, please." He begged, in whispers.<p>

"I'm here, John, we're here, and Mycroft's here, too." Sherlock took John's hand and was stroking it, knowing that it would probably help comfort him. It stung a bit to have John call for Avery first and himself last, but he'd wait until John was better (or until their couples therapy) to mention it. "You're in the hospital. You're probably going to be fine." Mycroft cleared his throat at Sherlock. "You're going to be fine," Sherlock restated before a personality swap and now he was Liam. "I love you, John, you're my best friend and I won't—" He broke off into sobs. "I won't let the Monsters' poison kill you." He held John's hand to his face, crying on it. "Be brave, my soldier," he whispered. "Fight it. Come back to me."

John was groaning and grabbing at his hand. "Where's Sherlock," he mumbled, crying, screaming almost. "I'm going to die, aren't I?" John could hear two voices telling him that he was going to get through, even though they were pained. "Mycroft," He gasped out, "What's happening?" His chest burned with every word he managed to push out. Mycroft mumbled something, but he couldn't hear properly.

The nurses, or what he guessed were the nurses, cleaned his wounds and gave him more medication. It didn't help at all, and all John wanted was the pain to cease.  
>"Call Harriet," He shuddered. "I'm going to die."<p>

"No." It was Avery's turn to cry and his voice was icy. "Damn it, John Hamish Watson, you are not going to die." Mycroft had left to fulfil John's wish—out of courtesy, of course. "You are not going to die, do you hear me? You're going to wake up, and you're going to be fine, and you're going to stay with me the rest of my life, we'll grow old as flatmates and retire to Sussex and you're going to make sure I take my arthritis pills and I'm going to laugh that you've gone bald and damn it, you're not going to die, do you understand?" Avery swayed as he sat.

"She's on her way, John," came Mycroft's voice, cool under pressure but by no means unsympathetic.

Avery didn't register. Something snapped in his mind and suddenly he was Sherlock, Avery, and Liam all at once, babbling. "If you love me as much as you say you do, you won't give up please, please, don't do this, I'll die if you leave, I won't be able to stop it, who'll make sure I eat and sleep and bees, John, we'll keep bees and eat their honey on top of the ice cream that Liam likes and don't you dare die on me, John, don't you fucking dare die on me, damn it even now I can't love you, who'll play pirates with me if you die? You're the only real friend I've ever had—Natalia was just an infatuation and Trevor was only skin-deep and you won't die, I won't let you die, I nearly died for you and I let myself get raped for you and I would do anything for you and you know it." His nose started bleeding, his blood pressure far too high at just the thought that John was going to die.

Mycroft nodded to the nurses and suddenly Avery/Sherlock/Liam was shouting at them to leave him alone. He pushed away the first nurse, and eventually three orderlies had to hold him while they sedated him. But it wasn't quite enough and he was still conscious and calling for John.

"Have another bed brought in," ordered Mycroft in his sinister-yet-calm tone. "They need to be next to one another.

"John," a voice whispered, through the veil of dark. "Johnny-boo." A finger stroked his nose.  
>"Harry," He smiled quietly. "I feel so bad, the worst I've ever felt in my life.. <em>hell<em>, even worse than that time in Germany when I got food poisoning." Harry forced a smile, but then looked at him, gravely.  
>"The nurses, they thought it'd be better if I give you the news. You have septicemia. They're going to give you a blood transfusion. This is very serious… but I believe in you."<br>She looked over at Sherlock, who was passed out from the traumatic thought of John's death.  
>"What am I going to tell him, Harry? I <em>know<em> how serious it is, I've watched my patients die from it with no chance." She sighed and stroked through his hair.  
>"It's going to be okay, love. Because you're a soldier, and you always get through."<p>

She left an hour or so later, and Sherlock was still passed out. Mycroft was sighing and checking his mobile every so often with a head shake. "Go," John croaked, gesturing to the door. "You clearly need to leave, we're not going anywhere."

"I'm not going anywhere while my brother and his boyfriend are ill." It was uncharacteristic for Mycroft to show such concern, but he'd made a promise to John to keep them safe and he wasn't about to break it.

"John," Sherlock(?) said in his sedated sleep. "Joooohhhhhnnn." He started grabbing wildly at the air, and Mycroft was kind enough to help him find John's hand. They were too far away to hold properly, but Sherlock's fingers brushed John's far-too-hot ones and he knew who it was. His eyes fluttered open. "Ngh." His mind had resolved itself into Sherlock for the time being, but who knew that was going to last? "Still alive," he muttered. "I need you, John." He reached for John again, but this time couldn't reach as a set of doctors came in, blocking them. "Ngive him my blood, any of it, all of it, I won't need it if he's gone."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but you're not a suitable donor." Mycroft shushed the nurse silently. Sherlock continued babbling in this vein, words growing more coherent as the sedatives wore off, once or twice slipping into Avery's angry growl or Liam's terrified whispers. Eventually he sat up and moved to the chair by John. All signs pointed to John being completely out, but in reality, he was just conscious enough to make out Sherlock and Mycroft's conversation.

"I still don't love him, Mycroft. Why?"

"I don't know."

"Avery and Liam do."

"Perhaps you're simply more guarded with your heart."

"That's not it. I've tried."

"I can't tell you."

"Avery loves him sexually, far more than I've ever known. Liam loves him like a schoolyard best friend—pure and simple. None of me knows romance. I don't know their forms of love. I've never loved anyone." A pause. "Not even you, my brother."

"Love clouds judgement."

"You love me."

Another pause. "Yes."

"What's wrong with me? Why can't I love?"

"It isn't a flaw. It's just who you are."

Sherlock sighed, clearly exhausted. He squeezed John's hand and placed it to his own chest. "That's what you gave me, John. A heart. Don't take it away."

John didn't remember the next few hours. He was moved and prodded and spoken to, but it made no sense to him.

He was aware that he'd been knocked out, but he could hear everything in the background. There was a vibrating sound, like some sort of machine, and then his body was shaking uncontrollably.

He couldn't judge the amount of time it took, but when he came out, he could hear cheers from the nursing team. He could hear Mycroft thanking them with a smile in his voice, but he couldn't hear Sherlock.

When he came round, Mycroft was there, and Sherlock was still passed out on the bed next to him. "What happened, Mycroft?" John croaked.

If John had been better, undoubtedly he would have found Mycroft's tiredness unusual. Mycroft had been worried, too, and not just for Sherlock's sake. "There was a successful treatment. Your body is now able to deal with what's left of the infection. It will still take a few days before you can go home, but you're going to be fine." Mycroft smiled reassuringly. "Of course, you still have a fever, but it's nothing more serious than that of a moderate flu." He followed John's gaze to Sherlock. "Sherlock, or rather all three of his personalities—" Mycroft's voice wavered ever so slightly. The thought of Sherlock with that mental illness was one of his greatest nightmares come to life. "He had to be sedated. Repeatedly. He was growing hysterical." A nurse came in and shifted John's pillow.

"Oh, nice to see you awake, Dr. Watson." She smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, so much better. How long is Sherlock going to be sedated?" She raised an eyebrow at him.  
>"I wanted to send him home, but his brother said it'd be better if we knocked him out. Due to the amount of sedative, I'd say the next few hours. Do you have any questions about your surgery, by the way?" She smiled, and patted him on the arm.<br>"Yeah, what did you do?"  
>"We pumped your blood through a machine, clea- You know what, you're a doctor, you know what we did by the first part of my sentence. Let me know if you need anything," She turned to look at Mycroft with a wink. "Any of you."<p>

Mycroft shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Um, I should go and get something to eat." And he followed closely behind her.  
>"Well.. that was.. <em>strange.<em>" John muttered to himself, before he turned to look at Sherlock with a smile.

It was plain that even sedated, Sherlock was stressed. He was occasionally twitching and calling for John. Eventually, he woke up, sharply snapping his eyes open. "John!" He sat up suddenly and turned to look beside him. He took a sudden deep breath and broke into a weak smile. He blinked dizzily and fell back onto his pillow. "It worked, then?" He shook his head. "Obvious. Stupid." He looked at John, examining all the readouts. "I'm…you're fine, and that's what counts." Sherlock smacked his lips slightly, thirsty. "This sedative is managing to keep Avery and Liam away after I've woken up with no undesirable side effects. Unless you count unconsciousness. Interesting." He studied John's face. "How are you feeling?"

"Fresh, if that makes sense. My blood feels fresh in my body. It's the weirdest thing. But better. Still sick, but better." Sherlock smiled, relieved. "I'm going to be fine, aren't I? I can leave here, and look after you." Sherlock nodded, and hugged him.

He and Sherlock lay there, until nurses came in to release John. They left, hand in hand, something feeling different between them. It seemed as if they were closer, if it were possible for them to be that. "I know you don't love me, or can't, rather. But do you feel as if we're closer now? I certainly do. I think I'm just glad I'm not dead." John chuckled.

Sherlock didn't answer. He felt no different except for a feeling of intense relief he knew would eventually fade. Instead, he started talking about his case. "It would appear the victim, Mr. Charles Raven, could have been moonlighting as a chemist, and there's reason to suspect he was working on a new drug that would increase the desire to please." He needed some sense of normalcy, to forget what almost just happened. "A potentially valuable interrogation technique, as Irene Adler demonstrated." There was a hint of bitterness in his tone. "Though why he'd be killed for it, I'm not entirely certain, though it's obvious it was connected." He held up a business card. "And I believe I know where to find his killer, though not the mastermind behind it. Feeling up to chasing him down in a noisy nightclub?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow quizzically.

The cab that they had been sitting in pulled into Baker street.  
>"No. Not particularly. But don't worry about me." John got out and slammed the door, striding up the steps and into the flat. Sherlock slowly walked behind him, asking what he had done wrong, but instead of replying, John totally ignored him and went into his room.<p>

Sherlock didn't follow him, instead, he sent him texts from the living room.

_Text:Sherlock_

_Go and finish your case._

_It's clearly of paramount importance._

_-J._

He heard Sherlock bang out of the flat and down the stairs, muttering under his breath.

I'm back from hospital and the transfusion went without difficulty.

Sherlock is right back to his case, unexpectedly.

**John's blog:**

I'm tired, just _really_ tired. All I need is to sleep but I can't, it feels strange that he's not here.

Sherlock: I'll be back soon. In the meantime, Mrs. Hudson will be more than willing to tend to you, should you feel you need it.

John: You should be here, instead.

Sherlock: No offence, John, but I think solving the murder of a government employee working on a new interrogation chemical that could be used to instigate the collapse of governments and the deaths of thousands might be a little bit more important. You'll be fine. I'll be back in a couple of hours.

John: That's fine, just fucking fine.

I mean, it's not like you need me or anything so I might just get off.

Sherlock: What are you talking about? Of course I need you. I was considerate enough to ask you if you were feeling up to coming, and when you said you weren't, I decided to let you rest.

I have to do this, John, this case. For my sanity, what little I have left. I will be back this evening, theoretically, case closed, another murderer locked up. Just relax, watch a film or something, pet Louis or get Mrs. Hudson to make you tea. I don't understand why this is a big deal.

John: I don't usually say this, but you are an ass.

I mean it's not like I could have died or anything, I wonder, if I _had of died_, would you still be running around like I never existed?

Never mind.

Sherlock: If you had died, John, I'd be in an institution right now. Or quite shortly.

Just calm down. I really don't see why you're so cross. I'm an adult. I can take care of myself. For the most part. And Mrs. Hudson will be more than happy to bring you what you need.

John: :-(

Sherlock: You said, and I quote: "Don't worry about me." Did you not mean it?

John: Sarcasm, dear.

Sherlock: Oh.

Sherlock knew that John needed to rest. He also knew that Mrs. Hudson was in and that if he didn't get back to his case, vital clues would be washed away forever.

He entered the dark nightclub where he knew Sam West would be. It was a generic enough name, but by no means was it a generic man. He was sitting in the VIP area, sipping expensive cocktails, and Sherlock could tell (_steady hands, arrogant posture, slight powder on suit coat, not currently armed but accustomed to carrying, slight abnormality in left knee which matches kneeling prints at crime scene_) that he was the shooter. He approached the red velvet ropes, and a large man blocked his way. "I'm Sherlock Holmes," he shouted over the music. "Surely you've heard of me?" The man stepped aside.

Sherlock strode to where the assassin sat, a scantily-dressed woman snuggling to him (_Just like John, no, John would have more clothes, stop thinking about him, he's fine, just focus on the case. Sentiment is at best a distraction._) "Sam West, I presume." Sherlock sat across from him.

"What of it?"

"I assume you knew Charles Raven."

"Who?"

"The man you last saw outside a toy boutique last Friday night." This caused West to shoo away his female attention.

"What are you saying?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm saying. I'd like to know who hired you for that little job." Sherlock leaned back, sending body language messages that he was unintimidated (which was true.)

West imitated Sherlock's motion. "Why would I tell you?" He took out a cigarette from his pocket, causing Sherlock to twitch almost imperceptibly.

"You really don't want to smoke." Sherlock's tone was cautioning rather than threatening.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, I really do." West inhaled, lighting it. "You're not going to ask how I know your name?"

"Same reason the bouncer did, probably. I'm hardly low-profile any longer." He'd tensed, worried about what might happen if Avery surfaced. Fortunately, West didn't seem to notice. "I would advise you to tell me what I need to know soon. Otherwise there could be consequences out of my control."

West blew smoke in Sherlock's face, and suddenly Avery was pinning West to the wall, his arm across the assassin's face. "Tell me who hired you." West was gagging as Avery released his arm. "What's that?"

"I said 'don't fall asleep.'" West was smiling and Avery recognized what he'd meant. He felt his limbs going slack. "Everything's fine," he heard West say. "He's just had a little too much to drink." Then it all went black.

It was Sherlock who woke up, the sedatives clearing the influence of his other personalities. He was seated in a comfortable armchair, though at one point his arms had been bound quite tightly. There was a woman sitting across from him, glamorously clothed, brunette, Russian, and extraordinarily familiar, though it took a few minutes to realize who she was. "Natalia?"

John couldn't sleep. He decided he'd text Sherlock and apologize.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped. Come home when you're done and we can do whatever you want. I'll even sit through a science documentary again.

I love you.- J x

He groaned and pulled himself up. Louis mewed at him and curled up on his lap. John stroked him and smiled, wishing Sherlock was here instead.

Sherlock didn't text back, and it worried him. He usually made the effort.

What's going on? -J x

He sighed and got up, putting on Sherlock's dressing down, which was far too big for him, and walked into the living room.

Sherlock was staring at Natalia, trying to figure out what precisely was going on. "What?"

"Now, now, Sherlock." She sat in the chair opposite, a scheming and almost seductive smile on her face. "I'm pleased you remembered me."

"How could I not remember you?" He was watching her carefully, head starting to clear. "After all, the last I saw of you, I was semiconscious after having been beaten quite brutally."

"You haven't changed a bit," Natalia said, kneeling before him and sliding up his left sleeve. "Right down to your little habits." Sherlock yanked his arm away.

"I've quit." He didn't want to be reminded of the only thing he'd found to effectively keep his mind as one.

"No reason to be snappish," she said, standing.

"What am I doing here?"

"No small talk? No 'how have you been these twenty years, Natalia?' I'd say I'm disappointed, but in honesty, I've missed you, Sherlock."

"Fine. What have you been up to?" He was quite irritated that she wasn't getting to the point.

"Russian secret service," she replied casually.

"Government? Not really your style."

Natalia grinned. "Black ops."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Ah. That _is _more your style. And the reason you had Charles Raven killed?"

"He'd stolen a formula for a drug which would—"

"Produce a strong desire to please the interrogator."

"Precisely."

"This isn't the Cold War, Natalia. It's not us against them." He shifted in his seat.

She frowned. "It's always us against them. The them changes."

"That's no reason to shoot him in cold blood." Sherlock felt like a hypocrite, considering that he hadn't objected in the least to Avery's last kill until he found out the justification was irrelevant. Natalia's only response was to shrug.

"Don't you worry, Sherlock." Her face was close to his, almost too close. "Oh, I have missed you," she said, kissing him. He sat, unresponsive in any way as her kissing grew more passionate, the old flame rekindling.

John flicked through the TV channels. Nothing. He'd watched all the DVD's and listened to all the music. He was just _bored._

I'm gonna come meet you at the club.-J x

John went into his room, shrugged off the dressing gown and got changed. His back ached and he felt quite dizzy on his feet, but the boredom was eating at him.

Sherlock had left him a note in case he wanted to come, with directions with how to get there, even though he was getting a cab.

The cab was taking so many turns and diversions, it seemed like forever. The cab cost him about thirty pounds, and he got out with a sigh and went up to the bouncer.  
>"Uhm, Sherlock Holmes?" He nodded into the club.<br>"Right, you're that John guy, aren't you?" He smirked. "He's rather busy right now." He popped gum at him and smiled.  
>"I'm his colleague and, well you know." The bouncer smiled and nodded, and then moved to the side to reveal Sherlock kissing, (or being kissed, he couldn't quite tell) a girl.<br>"Right.." He stammered, and the bouncer looked at him sympathetically.  
>"You two aren't.. together, are you?" he frowned and put a hand on his shoulder. "I had no idea."<p>

Natalia looked up. "Well." She was smiling, cunning, unruffled. "You must be John Watson. I've heard…interesting things about you. Take a seat." John stubbornly refused to sit and instead stared at her, threateningly. "Oh, don't be upset, John," she laughed. reading him like a neon sign. "He didn't kiss back."

"John," said Sherlock, straightening himself in the chair and clearing his throat. "Permit me to introduce you to the woman behind the gunman in the Raven case, Russia's James Bond, apparently, and the woman who dragged me across Europe for five months, Natalia Zimanova."

John practically fell into the chair, in shock. His mind was racing, his chest felt like it had a massive hole in it, he couldn't believe that Sherlock didn't push her away. Sherlock was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear him properly over the sound of his heart in his ears. Instead, he just sat bolt upright, pale as paper, silent.

"Your taste in associates has trended more toward the weak," Natalia frowned as she saw John's reaction. Sherlock's nostrils flared defensively.

"He's been ill." Sherlock snapped. "But then you knew that, so why the insult? Ah. You wanted to see how I'd react. You wanted to see how _he'd _react." He smiled the smile used for adoration but not approval. "Still playing your mind games." He tore his gaze from her to look at John. "Calm down, John, we don't need you having a heart attack."

"I'm not weak, I'll have you know I've killed people sooner than I looked at them." He snapped. "I'm going to wait outside, resume whatever you two were doing." He shoved quite violently past Sherlock and stormed outside the front of the club.

"Are you okay, mate?" The bouncer stopped him before he stormed into the road. John nodded, although his eyes were clearly about to spill. "Here, have a smoke." He pulled out a box and passed him a cigarette, and John was too upset to remember that he hadn't smoked for eight years.

He lit up and took a drag, the smoke seeping down the back of his throat as he inhaled, he smiled. The warmth in his lungs was a feeling that had been forgotten. He could almost feel the chemicals streaming into his blood, and it made him tingle, and almost forget what had happened.

Until Sherlock walked out of the doors, putting his gloves on.

Sherlock stared at John, yanking the cigarette from him and stamping on it. "Avery," was all he said, twitching slightly. There was still enough of whatever sedative West had used to keep him from coming through completely, but he could start to feel the other mind trying to break through, aided by the cigarette smoke. He grabbed John's sleeve and brought him back inside where Natalia had poured him a drink.

"On the house," she said, handing it to him. "Interesting, your reaction." She was studying John in a way he'd only ever been studied by Sherlock before.

"How'd you end up working for the FSB?" Sherlock was determined to change the subject. "And what happened to Edvard?"

"I got what I wanted from Edvard and moved on," she shrugged. "The relationship lasted three weeks."

"Meanwhile, you left me beaten half to death in a dark alley in Budapest."

"An unforeseen consequence. You'd grown attached."

"You kissed me. That tends to take infatuation to a new high." Sherlock was halfway to irritated.

"To be fair, Sherlock, you're the only person I've stayed with for more than two months." There was a hint of fiery attraction behind her eyes, something akin to what Avery showed when he was in his more respectful moods. _I love you more than anything but I won't let myself have you right now because you may not want it._ Sherlock averted his gaze.

"After you," he said softly, "There was no one for seventeen years and even now it's not the same." He pursed his lips. "That's…not how I meant to say that." He shut his eyes for a few seconds to think of a better way of phrasing it. "The hormone-fuelled fire of adolescence isn't replaceable. Instead of biochemical infatuation, there's safety. You and I didn't have safety. I never once felt safe with you."

"But you loved it," she smiled. "The danger, the drugs, the not knowing if we'd wake up the next morning. I know you, Sherlock Holmes. I've seen you at your most raw."

John pursed his lips and said nothing, swigging down on his drink and then getting up to leave without a word.

He caught a cab before Sherlock could follow him and sat in the back and sobbed, hot, raw cries of pain.

He didn't wait for him to come home, instead he went into his room, shutting Louis out of the room and lying on the floor. _He's probably shagging her now. Not even Avery wants you anymore, you worthless piece of shit._  
>"Not you again," John whispered through his sobs, "Please, not you." He curled up into a ball and screamed. He screamed until he couldn't scream anymore, and then, he passed out.<p>

Sherlock couldn't keep Avery down any more as John left. The best he could do was groan as he changed. "Now look what you've done, you bitch." Avery slapped her, hard. "It was bad enough that he was having trouble in this relationship recently and now you had to come back into my life to—" Sherlock stumbled, moaning. He looked up, and took in the welt on Natalia's face and her confused look. "Dissociative Identity Disorder," he said. "That would have been Avery, undoubtedly." He pulled himself off the floor and into the chair.

"I know what you need," Natalia whispered. "I've watched you for a month and I know exactly what you need, what works."

"No," Sherlock said, shutting his eyes and tensing. "It does work, but I can't. Not again. Not after the withdrawals."

"Then go. Follow him." She wasn't offended, merely curious. "Take my card." She left a lipstick imprint on it and handed it to him. "I'll be in touch, and you can always call if you feel the need for discussions like we used to have."

Sherlock had no idea John would be so upset. He was sure they'd talk about this tomorrow in their therapy, so it might be best if left until then. He came up the steps in the flat, and could hear what was left of John's voice in a mostly-silent scream. He grabbed the handle but it wouldn't turn. He charged the door and broke through. The blind panic on John's face caused Liam to surge forward, and he was peeling John out of his ball. "John, please don't scream. Please don't cry. You scare me when you're upset like this." He hugged John and lifted him into bed. "When you're sad-scared-angry, it makes me sad." Liam was shaking as he hugged John tightly. "Please be happy again. We need you to be happy." It was the first time Liam had cried, and his tears were falling on John's neck.

John couldn't speak or move. He couldn't do anything but scream, like there was a ball of hurt in his throat that needed to be pushed out. Liam was hugging him, rocking him back and fourth whilst he sobbed himself to sleep. This truly was the worst pain he had ever been in, even worse than a bullet to the shoulder. He was aware of the change in person when Avery started cursing and holding him close to his chest.

John woke up feeling like he'd drank several bottles of whiskey. He legs felt heavy, like they had led in them, and his throat was torn to pieces. He saw that he had a message on his phone, from Mycroft.

_I had the place checked last night, you were heard screaming._

_Natalia, she's back, isn't she? I saw him leaving a club where she is often seen._

_If my __dear__ brother has upset you because of her, I'm getting her locked up for possession, if she isn't escaped from prison already._

_-Mycroft._

John tried to smile but couldn't. Somebody was still holding him, but he didn't want to find out who it was.

"Hello." It was a small voice, Liam's voice. "Are you better now?" John tried to reply, but his voice was too ruined. "It's okay, John, I'm here. I don't know what happened, but I'm sure you didn't deserve it." He was obviously tired. "I didn't want to sleep until you're happy again." He hugged John's head to his chest and wrapped John in him completely as if he were a blanket. John's phone chimed.

_Sorry about the misunderstanding._

"Do we have to see Doctor Wilson today?" Liam sounded very sad, like he didn't want to move out of their bed at all. "You can type it if you can't talk."

John typed, his voice wasn't up to speaking.

_I don't want to go today, cancel it if you can._

Liam nodded and hugged him more. John started to weep silently, his body was shaking, and Liam noticed, begging him not to cry.

_I can't help it. He didn't push her away, and you know I'll never be as loved as her. He was in love with her, and he can't be with me. Even Avery hates me._

Liam shook his head, crying himself.

"Avery doesn't hate you, that's a silly thing to say. He loves you. And I love you, but different. And Sherlock wasn't in love with her. He had a crush a bit but that's not the same." Liam stroked John's hair. "He's never been in love." They sat quietly for a few moments. "John," came Sherlock's voice. "I want you to try something. It's reckless and probably stupid, but I—" He couldn't believe he was about to actually ask this of John. "I can understand if you don't want to, because you saw what it did to me, and you're under no obligation, but…" He swallowed. "You're distressed. I want you to understand. I want you to do this once and once only. So that you're educated. So that you know how to administer properly. So that you understand the appeal and why I was addicted. And to see how it affects you." He didn't meet John's gaze. "I want you to try cocaine."

John frowned but couldn't speak because it caused him great pain. He pulled out his phone to text again.

_I'm not too sure why you want me to try it anyway. I'll never understand it. I've tried it once before and almost died. I don't think it's wise._

Sherlock sighed and looked down at him, almost as if he was begging him. He brushed his hands through John's hair with a small smile, until John pulled away from him and turned away.

"I wanted you to try…I don't really know why. I suppose because you're so distraught and it hurts to see you like this and it helped me. Thank you for refusing. I don't entirely know what possessed me to ask." Sherlock sighed, relieved. "And may I point out that you nearly died because you were uncertain of the correct dosage, though with your occasional administering it to me, you appear to have learned." He put his hand on John's shoulder, cautiously. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted. "We need you to make lemon and honey tea!" For once, there was no objection. Sherlock was silent until Mrs. Hudson brought the tea up, worried. "Thank you."

"Is everything alright?"

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Sherlock half-lied as he took John's tea and handed it to him. After she left, he blew into his tea. "This flat has become a place of fevers and nightmares ever since I had to take the Fall." It was oddly poetic, but it's how he felt. "We'll never get back to what we were before that day." He finished his tea and lay back down, staring at the ceiling, mind swirling with dark thoughts, and despite what Liam may have wanted, fell fast asleep.

John fell asleep too, even though he'd only just woken up. He didn't want to stay awake, facing the reality of what had become them. John didn't dream.

When he woke up, somehow Sherlock's arm had found it's way around his shoulders, and he was resting his chin upon his head. John didn't move. He was oddly comforted, even though it was Sherlock who had caused his breakdown. He felt comforted by the smell of Sherlock's neck and the sound of his soft snores. He slid his arm around him, waking him up.

"Sorry." He managed to whimper, painfully. Sherlock smiled at him, instead of pushing him away.

"No, don't apologize." Sherlock blinked sleepily. "It's nice. For once, I wasn't having a nightmare. A dark dream, yes, but not a nightmare." He smirked, though John could only barely make it out in the middle of the night. "We've watched Pirates of the Caribbean too much. I dreamed I was Jack, but I was obviously still me. You were on the Flying Dutchman and I had to rescue you by sacrificing myself after swimming three hundred miles to find the ship. Then I guess Liam got hold of my dream or something because I beat Davy Jones to save you by engaging him in a tap-dancing competition." He shook his head, amused. "Funny. I think I like Liam. He always says the right things. He cares in the right way. He's…it's like I've been rewound. Set on the right track." He shifted under the covers, away from John slightly. "But Avery…Avery's what I could have been, I suppose. If Mycroft hadn't brought me back from Geneva or if something else had gone just slightly differently. Like glimpses into a parallel world." He sighed. "Either way, it frightens me. More than almost anything. The vision of my future has changed. I thought that maybe at sixty, I'd retire from being a detective and move into the countryside. I thought I'd…keep bees or something. But now…it's uncertain." He turned back to John, and there was a paralysing doubt in his face. "You're the only thing keeping me together, probably. It's useless and sentimental, but you have to stay sane because I won't." Sherlock's eyes crossed and he fell asleep again.

John was awakened by a near-simultaneous crash of thunder and nightmarish yelp from Sherlock. The rain slapped the windows, but Sherlock was already soaking with sweat. The sudden sharp noises and bright lightning were giving him violent nightmares. He was actually cool to the touch, clammy and shaking. His eyes were half-open but rolled back, and every time the thunder clapped, he would give a small shout of terror.

"Are you okay?" John whispered, pulling closer to him, despite the sweat. He shook his head and whimpered into John's neck. John was still angry at him, but he cuddled him all the same. "I'm here, shh. It'll be okay." John kissed him on the top of the head, and patted him on the back like a baby. Sherlock was shaking, vigorously, clinging onto him for dear life.

Sherlock's eyes opened, rolling around as he tried to figure out what was going on. "But the guns! Shooting." His breathing was ragged. "Not guns," he noticed. "Just a storm." He was calmer now that he was awake, but still jumped whenever the thunder clapped. "Psychological scars," he said, trying more to explain it to himself than to John. Louis, too, was cuddling with them, up on Sherlock's now-abandoned pillow. "Sleeping pill," he muttered and rolled backwards to get one. He staggered on his way to the bathroom whenever the thunder hit, reminded too much of not-John and not-Mycroft being murdered mere feet from him (though in his memory, it was still John and Mycroft). An especially close thunderclap was accompanied by the sound of breaking glass from the other room, followed by Sherlock, on the verge of hyperventilating crawling back into the bed and holding John as hard as he could, eyes clamped shut and shaking hard. Eventually the shaking weakened as the sleeping pill took hold, and, while he still twitched at the louder thunder, he was otherwise calm.

John couldn't get back to sleep. He decided to clean the flat, even though it was probably early hours of the morning.

Sherlock had left case papers everywhere, John didn't bother to read them. He knew he'd just upset himself. He decided to slip them all into files; one's that he'd bought Sherlock, but he'd never used. He put labels on everything and put them on shelves. Sherlock would probably complain.

He scrubbed the kitchen and cleaned out the fridge, like it was completely normal to do it at 3am.

Mrs Hudson must have heard him, because she popped up in her nightie.  
>"What are you doing, John? Why are you cleaning at this time?" John explained what had happened, and she sat down as he made her a cup of tea.<br>"So really, she was kissing him, and he didn't even push her off." She tutted and sipped at the cup.  
>"He never had anybody before you. I mean, as far as I could see. He didn't love her, he loved the drugs, I'm guessing. As much as he says he can't, he loves you, in his own way."<br>John nodded, but knew she didn't have a clue.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson answered it. "I'm afraid this isn't a good time."

"I need to speak to John Watson." It was Natalia, forcing her way past. John ignored her, not because he really felt passive, but because he really didn't want to get in trouble for beating the crud out of someone. "I know that what you saw upset you. Hear me out," she said, raising a hand to interrupt John. "I hadn't seen him in twenty years. He's the only person I've ever loved. If it had been that long between the times you saw Sherlock, wouldn't you kiss him?" She looked at John pointedly. "And wouldn't it just eat you up inside if he didn't kiss you back?"

"Natalia, he didn't push you away. He didn't do anything. I know he loved you, and doesn't love me, no matter what anybody says." He sighed. "Sometimes he doesn't kiss me back. Sometimes he ignores me for days whilst he's thinking. I deal with everything, I look after him, I make sure he's looked after to the best of my ability, and then _you_ come along, with your drugs and.. face," He gestured to her face with a small smile. "Compared to you, what am I?"

"You're what he has now. He refused what I offered him earlier." Natalia sat down. "I don't think he ever loved me exactly. He's always been strange like that. He's never kissed me once, not even when I thought we might not make it across the border and so kissed him." She ran her fingers along the lamp base, an almost Mycroft-like gesture. "He is a fascinating person. Even I couldn't tell what was going on in his head sometimes. Yes, he was full of fire and life when we travelled together." She smiled. "But now he needs someone, and the someone he's chosen is you." She leaned back, looking every bit the Bond girl. "We're the unrequited love club. Us and Irene Adler. We all love him so much and he can't so much as reciprocate."

The door to Sherlock's room slammed open. He looked drunk, but that was the sleeping pill. "Wha?"

"John and I were just discussing you." She leaned forward, eyes glittering. "And love."

Sherlock frowned. (Was it Sherlock?) He sat in a neutral location. "'S hardly fair to talk about me without me present."

Natalia stared at John. "Well, John? I know you want to say something."

"Me? Nothing." He glared at her. She shook her head and told him to tell him what he wanted to say.  
>"I'm sorry I can't give you what you want, drugs. I'm sorry. But I love you, <em>more<em> than I can say. I can't be without you for long, and.. I've said this all before. No matter what state you're in, I love you and I'll be here. But you already know that." Sherlock(?) nodded. Natalia smiled weakly and sat down.

"I don't want the drugs, John. Usually." He looked at Natalia. "Why are you here?"

"I came to apologize to John. It was poor timing on his part and showed a lack of decorum on mine." She dabbed her face where it was starting to bruise. "I too have always loved you."

Sherlock sat up, confused. "Deeply?"

"Truly." She put her hand on Sherlock's face and stroked it lovingly. He froze and shut his eyes.

"No. Don't." She pulled her hand back. "I was…"

"Oh," she said, her eyes widening. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. How long ago?"

Sherlock had fallen silent, still, as if hiding inside himself. It was some time before he spoke again. "Less than a week, most recently. Christmas for ten days. Repeatedly." He still hadn't moved. "It's what…it's why I've split."

Natalia stood up suddenly and moved to the far side of the sofa. "Tvoyu mat. What svoloch did this?"

"James Moriar…" Sherlock was still frozen. "Moriarty."

Natalia cringed at the name. "Now I have even more reason to find him," she said and reached over to Sherlock. "I promise I'll find him and shoot him myself," she said and reached in to kiss him.

"No!" Plainly it was Avery who rather violently shoved her across the sofa. "He's mine." Avery wiped his mouth and tried to run out of the room, but tripped on the table and fell, hitting his head on the floor, dazing him. "Ngh. Hold me, John."

"I think I should be leaving now," Natalia said with no bitterness. She rose and quietly left.

John picked Avery up and took him to his bedroom, putting him in the bed. "You don't need to push her away all the time, I'd prefer it if he did it." Avery looked at him pained, almost the same as John had looked at Sherlock when he was being kissed by Natalia. John hugged him. "Please don't cry, love. Please." He kissed him on the nose and started to cry himself. "You and Liam are the only ones I have left, I think. Sherlock doesn't want me anymore, I don't think so anyway. Please be okay."

"Hush." Avery put his mouth to John's for a full half minute. "What put that stupid idea in your head?" He was staring at John's eyes. "Sherlock's not like you and I. He's…distant. Believe me, he feels more for you than he ever did for her so stop beating yourself up about it." He rolled over on top of John. "If he didn't, why would he have thrown himself off a building to protect you?" He kissed John's neck for a few moments but as the physical took over, he sat back up again. "No. Too soon. I think probably just sleep." He rolled over away from John, shaking again. It was clear that Avery's voice was calm because he'd forced it to be. It took him two hours to fall asleep again.

When he woke up, he poked John on the nose playfully. Liam. "John, may I have happy face pancakes?" He smiled and jumped out of bed, walking into the other room. He returned a few moments later, significantly more down but dragging Hamish. "That room is bad," he said, referring to Sherlock's room, crawling back under John's covers. "But I know that when I'm with you I'll be okay. I like you a lot, John. You keep me safe. I don't have nightmares when you're with me."

"Yes you can have pancakes, and I _will_ keep you safe." John snuffled, still half asleep. He stretched and hugged Liam with a small grin. "I'll go and make your pancakes now. You can have them in bed if you want." Liam nodded excitedly and and pulled the covers over his face.

When John came back, it was Avery. He was lighting up, looking out of the open window. "Morning." John croaked, passing him the pancakes. He nodded and ate them, even though he probably didn't want to. John slumped onto the bed, with a heaving sigh. "When do you think Sherlock will be back? I think we need to talk, given last nights events."

"No way to know." He blew the smoke out slowly. "But I do know I—we? What pronoun do I use? Anyway, I know we do need to keep our appointment with Hussey." He put his cigarette in his left hand and ate the last bite of pancake. "And you need to make sure you take your meds." Avery continued to stare out the window until his cigarette was finished. "Just to let you know, John, I'm extremely uninterested in her. I'm completely and totally gay. Not to mention completely and totally taken." He kissed John's forehead. "My God, I love you. Every ounce of me is yours." He took John's hands. "Who would have thought that a mind born of rape, torture, and drug overdose could fall so madly in love with anyone? And yet here I am, obsessed with you."

John went against his better judgement and kissed him, like he would with Sherlock. He pulled back and smiled, still holding his hands. "I really don't want to talk to anybody." He sighed, and Avery looked at him seriously. "Fine." He went back under the covers all the same.

When he'd managed to convince himself to get washed, changed and in a cab, he decided it was a bad idea. "I feel awful, don't make me go." He winced quietly. "Please?"

Avery sighed. "You won't have to. I'll cancel. I'm not leaving you alone. Not after yesterday." He lay in bed as he called to cancel. "Yes, I know I cancelled my appointment with Doctor Wilson yesterday. John's been in hospital and I'm not leaving him alone. We'll still come in next week." He hung up without a courtesy _goodbye_, and turned to face John in the bed. He sat still for a few moments before Liam's voice returned. "John, what's wrong?" He smacked his lips. "Avery ate my pancakes. I can tell 'cause my mouth tastes like cigarettes and syrup and Sherlock doesn't smoke." Liam put his hand on John's face like the child his mind was. "I'm your best friend. You can tell me what's wrong. Please, tell me. I promise not to be mad or hurt."

"I'm fine." John gritted his teeth. "Fine." He turned his face into the pillow and started punching it. Liam got up, and left the room, probably out of fear. John got up and went under his bed, pulling out a blue bag. Inside, was a punchbag. He hadn't used it since he was in the army, but he decided now was a good time. He managed to set it up, rather easy, just a few screws into the ceiling here and there. Liam knocked on the door.  
>"Not now, I'm busy. I'll be out in a minute." He began punching it, over and over and over, like it was Moriarty's face.<p>

Liam fumbled with Sherlock's phone. He was sitting in the living room, hiding between the desk and the bookshelf, terrified. Any form of violence, even to inanimate objects, frightened him enormously. "M…Mycroft? It's me, Liam. Um, Sherlock's new self. John's hitting things. Not me, but I'm scared. I don't know why he's doing it. He won't tell me."

"I'll be there in five minutes."

John was shouting with every punch, trying to release his agony. Liam could hear it, could tell the emotions were pouring out in greater measures with every hit, and it hurt him, emotionally. By the time Mycroft arrived, Liam was sobbing, curled into a ball on his side. "I wanted to be happy," he was telling Louis. "I don't even think ten pounds of sprinkles and ice cream will make me happy right now."

Mycroft registered the sound and knew it was a punching bag. Instead of interrupting John, he came over to comfort Liam. "Shhh, dear brother. I'm here. You'll be fine." He wrapped his arms around him, a gesture he'd often had to extend when they were children and their father had hurt Sherlock's feelings yet again. "John's just a bit upset."

Liam replied by sobbing further. "Why isn't he telling me what's wrong? I'm his best friend and he needs to open it like a bad blister so that my friendship can make a bandage so he can heal." Mycroft didn't have an answer. He began singing that French lullaby that had worked so well to calm Sherlock as a child, rocking him back and forth gently. Looking at them outside this moment, you would never have thought such vulnerability possible from the Holmes brothers, but in a moment of need, when every other form of human contact failed, they still had one another.

After about two hours, the flat grew silent. Mycroft gently knocked on John's door. "How are you, Doctor Watson?"

John opened the door, his expression wild. "Fine." He was covered in sweat, so his clothes were see through. Mycroft averted his eyes and went into the living room, and John followed him. He grabbed a towel off the washing pile that Mrs Hudson had left on the table and dabbed the sweat off him.

"John, what's going on?" Mycroft asked, still not looking at him.  
>"Nothing. I'm not letting foul moods get the better of me so I'm releasing my stress. It worked when I was in the army and it's working now." He looked menacing. He went into the bathroom and put the shower on without a word.<p>

By the time he came out, Mycroft was gone and Avery was smoking at the table, drawing. "Hello." John muttered, still sounding dark, he went into his room to change.

When John opened the door, Avery was standing there. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He was blocking the doorway. "I can understand the need to vent your anger. Trust me. But if you're not going to tell me what the problem is—" He was breathing hard, unable to form a coherent next portion of his sentence. "At least tell me. Hell, I'll let you beat me up if it's me you're pissed at. You won't talk to me, you won't talk to Mycroft, you won't even talk to Liam. I know you're most likely to talk to Sherlock, but he's kind of…I don't know the word. I'm here, talk to me, hit me, scream at me, stab me if you want. Just let me know what's wrong."

"I would have hit you by now if I was going to hit you at all." Avery sighed but stayed in the doorway. "I can't… I can't say. I'll wreck everything that me and Sherlock have. I will." He pushed past Avery and went to get changed.

When he came out, Avery demanded an answer out of him, by refusing to move out of the way of the door. "I…" He sighed. "I love you, as well as Sherlock." He closed his eyes. "But I won't choose. You need to understand that if he wanted me to never come near you again, I would do that."

Avery was stunned. He'd never thought of love as an evolutionary process—the instant he'd been "formed", he'd loved John. "Oh." He unblocked the doorway. "I…I won't make you choose." He swayed on his feet and fell into John's arms with a groan. "John, what?" It was Sherlock now. "What's going on? The last thing I remember…Natalia…and then sounds like hitting." He weakly tried to stand. "I don't feel well." He winced and changed his mind. "Actually, I'll be fine, I just have to…sit down." He tilted his head, eyes closed. "Strange. I can feel their emotions right now. One's frightened. The other is…happy. I can't tell which is which. I've stopped being able to be aware of Liam." He picked up Avery's drawing with an examining smile. "Funny, the things he does that I don't or can't." Sherlock stood and approached John, looking at him closely, his usual lack of personal space once again in action. "Are you alright?"

"I told Avery something that I should have kept to myself." John croaked, a tear rolling down his cheek. "I have feelings for him. But not as much as you. You'll always be more because, well, you're you. If you want me to stay away from him, I will." Sherlock frowned, confused but not angry. "I know I said I hated him, I know. But I understand why he did it. I'd kill for you. I would any day. I want to kill Moriarty myself, but that would involve risking a life in prison, and then I'd never see you again." He was starting to cry more, and Sherlock wiped his tears. "I love you so much, please don't hate me for this. I hate myself." He started to pant slightly, between sobs, and he put his head on Sherlock's shoulder for comfort.

"Why would you hate yourself? Why would I hate you? Emotions like that, as near as I can tell, aren't something you choose. They just happen." Sherlock patted John's back awkwardly. "It's not my place to tell you what you should or shouldn't feel, John." He bit his lip. "To be honest, I've been thinking about telling you that, should you be inclined, I would not object to making this an open relationship rather than a monogamous one." John sat up sharply. "Clearly, you need someone who can reciprocate. I can't. I'm not terminating it, John, just permitting you to find parts of what you need elsewhere, free of guilt. And since it would appear I can no longer engage in intercourse without severe psychological repercussions, and I have never been able to romantically love you, it is the logical option." He took John's hand gingerly, tensing at the physical contact, but continuing. "I had intended to bring this up at the counsellor's. But perhaps now is a better time."

**Sherlock's blog:**

Three minds in one body and not a spark of romantic love between them.

I've come to realize that. Avery has a deep sexual love, driven by the physical alone—just as John seems to be addicted to me, Avery appears to be addicted to John. Liam feels the love of a child to his friends and family, ever the eight-year-old grasping hands to cross the road or cuddling beside the fireplace after a nightmare. I don't feel either (for the most part. There have been instances where I have felt each but not nearly to the degree that they do.) And none of us feel romance. I think perhaps that's a neurological defect, though admittedly a potentially useful one.

For that reason, I have decided to alter the conditions of my experiment with John. To be more precise, I've opened it as I no longer feel the need for exclusivity. Though somehow I think John's addiction will prevent him from even wanting to see others (though he has recently confessed that he has developed a romantic attachment to Avery, which I find curious and a bit…painful). But he needed to know that I can't love him, Avery can only love him physically, and Liam can only love him as a friend. I wasn't being objective with the experiment. I tried to force an outcome over four years (admittedly three of those we were separated) because it was the outcome I wanted. It was a cardinal error and I should never have allowed myself to become so involved. Though perhaps that's what the experiment was really about—my ability to become involved. At least I've learned from it.

I didn't think it would hurt to change this experiment. It does. I can't love romantically, I can barely love sexually and only on extremely rare occasions, and I can't love like a child. It's the most alien of all emotions for me. I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to accept that fact.

John didn't quite know what to say. "I uhm.. uh, thank you?" He frowned, confused by the thought. Sherlock nodded, and awkwardly stretched out his arms to hug him. John sniffled against him, still quite upset. "I _do_ love you, though. No matter what, I will. And this isn't over, because you will always be the only person for me." He winced at his own words. "No matter how corny I am." He could hear a slight giggle from Sherlock before he pulled away. "Avery sort of, hit Natalia. Again." Sherlock shook his head with a grimace. "She's going to come back you know. She's in love with you, too."

"Yes. I know." Sherlock tilted his head. "Funny. First Natalia, then you, then Irene Adler, now Avery all lined up as potential suitors. Though obviously Avery's a bit more of a complicated thing than the others." He chuckled weakly. "And you're the most ordinary of the lot, and I've chosen you." He paused. "You know what I mean." Sherlock sighed and looked around the room. "I'd like to go out. For lunch or something. Tired of sitting around here, being miserable. What time's my appointment with Hussey? We'll have lunch, then go around there, and then spend the afternoon out. Could be nice."

"Fine, sounds like a nice plan. What I wanted to ask you was, do you think you'll… Do you think you'll end up on drugs again if she's around? She'll be kissing you and I'm really not comfortable with it because she's so much better than me." He looked at the floor with a slight pout. Sherlock sighed and tutted.

John went to wait for him in the living room whilst he got ready, and whilst he was lounging on the couch, he got a text.

_I miss you, John, meet up soon? - Sarah xxx_

He winced. That relationship had gone horribly wrong due to his feelings for Sherlock.

As usual, when Sherlock left his room, he was continuing the train of thought as if uninterrupted. "I'll be fine, John. I'm older, more mature." Sherlock's left hand twitched with memories. "I don't think I'll be seriously tempted unless it's been a very bad day." He put on his scarf and coat. "There were other things to Natalia's and my relationship than just the cocaine, though that made it easier to express. It was an intellectual connection. Minds at work, rather than bodies. It's not easy for a teenager to find that in someone." Realizing he may have offended John, he backtracked. "She and I were like fencing partners, much the same as Irene Adler and myself—an enjoyable battle of wits. You and I are more like mountain climbing partners—there for one another's safety." He picked up his phone from his pocket. "Yes, I'd like to confirm my appointment. Sherlock Holmes. Well, uncancel it. Yes." He hung up. "What did you let Avery cancel for? You know I need it. If nothing else, to talk about the medication. Never mind." He shoved his phone back into his pocket and hailed a cab. "Where are we having lunch?"

"You choose. Look who texted me." He held up his phone and Sherlock smirked. "Yeah, weird, I know." They slid into the back and strangely, Sherlock took John's hand. John smiled at him because this seemed to be happening more and more.

Sherlock chose to eat at Angelo's again, which John had no objection to. They sat in their usual place, and as always, Angelo came over to speak to them.  
>"Hello, boys. How are you today?" They smiled and told him that they were fine, whilst he rambled on about how Sherlock saved him from prison, though John had heard this story of thirty times.<p>

Sherlock poked at his pasta. "You know, John," he said after a long period of thoughtful silence, "I…I do _care_. About you. In…in December, when you…when Moriarty had you, I knew what would happen to me, physically, if I exchanged myself for you." He took a shaky sip of water. "I didn't know it would lead to this, but…even now, I think if I could redo it, do it differently, I wouldn't. I'd still have let—" Sherlock's hands were shaking badly and he put the glass down. He breathed calmly and steadily, eyes shut, before opening them, grinning, and stealing a bite of John's food, Liam's giggle sneaking past his lips. He stood up and moved to John's side of the booth, sliding his plate across the table and resting his head on John's shoulder. "Thank you, John, for making me happy again. Please don't be mad like you were. It scared me a lot."

"I won't, I'm sorry." He hugged him, and gave him a smile. Liam sat back the other side of the table, eating his food with a grin. Angelo wouldn't accept money for the food, so they left straight after.

"Liam, you have an appointment with Doctor Hussey now. You need to tell him how you've been feeling." John spoke to him like a parent in the back of the cab. The cab driver must have been confused, as he'd already driven them somewhere today by coincidence. Liam nodded and snuggled into John, smiling and asking for ice cream.

"And you need some, too, probably," Liam said, once again, leaning into John (which was probably unsafe in a moving vehicle). When they got to the building in which Hussey had his practice, Liam skipped into the building and the lift. He looked at John almost sadly. "When I've gone back inside Sherlock's mind, I'm sad. It's lonely in there and I miss you." The lift doors opened and they sat in the waiting room, where Liam played with the toys, earning him strange glances from other patients. The nurse called Sherlock, and John had to prod Liam. "Oh, right, she means me." He stood up and gave John a hug.

Liam and Hussey talked about Sherlock, Avery, John, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson. Avery and Hussey talked about Sherlock, Liam, Moriarty, and John. Sherlock didn't reemerge before the session's end, but Liam did. He came out of the room and headed straight for John, hugging him. "John," said Hussey. "I need to speak with you for a moment." John followed, leaving Liam in the waiting room. "You seem like a capable man, but I am concerned that you may not be entirely up to taking care of him on your own." John insisted that he was. "If you're sure. We'd also like to place him over the weekend in a treatment facility where we can study the changes. I've had patients with Dissociative Identity Disorder before, and they've never been this resistant to treatment. I'd like a chance to study Sherlock, Liam, and Avery under controlled circumstances. Of course, you'd be free to be there, but we'd like to study his sleep patterns, his eating habits, everything. Liam didn't seem receptive to the idea, though if I know Sherlock, he'd be more than willing. Avery, I'm not so sure."

"I'll speak to him about it, but you know what Avery is capable of." Hussey nodded, and then John left without another word.

When he got outside, Sherlock was sitting, looking bored as ever. "They want to place you in a treatment facility this weekend." Sherlock nodded, but mentioned that Avery wouldn't stand for it. "That's what I said but, you know. What can we do? We'll have to warn him._ And _the nurses."

They sat outside for a while, deciding where to go. "I don't know. Not the park. Not the beach, that's too much effort. We could go back to the woods?"

"Yes. Hopefully I won't ruin that like I did France." Sherlock was frowning, considering it no fault but his own that John had almost died. "I suppose it's a good thing that I've discovered that particular weakness of mine on you. Not that I'm alright with having hurt you. Soldier. Doctor. You've been through it before, near-fatal injuries in remote locations. If it had been any one else, I don't think they could have handled it."

The cab trip to the woods was a relatively long one, and for a long while, Sherlock was silent. Then he spoke on a matter that wasn't particularly bothering him, but it was one about which he was curious. "What about Avery? I've seen him once, but…how is he? With sex? Forceful? Violent? Passionate?"

"Let's just say, his sex is like is attitude." John smirked. "Very different to you, although it only happened once between us." Sherlock went quiet and looked out of the window. "You were slower, gentle. I still stand by what I said, about you being the best I've ever had." Sherlock smiled, and for once, it reached his eyes. "It doesn't mean much but it's true."

They got out and walked to John's spot again. Sherlock let John lie down first, so he could curl up next to him. "Hmm, it's so quiet here. It's the most relaxing place I've ever been."

"Thank you for sharing it with me." Sherlock was stroking his fingers along the mossy rocks, face right against the dirt, smelling it gently—he was taking in even the tiniest details, storing it in his fantastic memory. "May not make sense, but I'm putting this in my mind as somewhere to retreat to when I need serenity." He stayed like that, silent, almost still, soaking up everything from the babbling brook to the distant cars, the warmth of the sunlight, the coolness of the rocks, the squishy sponge of the dirt that had almost soaked up last night's rain. It was nearly an hour before he spoke again. "Adding your heaven to my mind palace, next to my own." He smiled and closed his eyes, focussing on the sounds more than anything and accidentally dozing off.

John decided not to wake Sherlock, he thought it'd be best if he fell asleep for a few minutes here. It used to relax John when he dozed off here, sometimes for hours on end. He remembered back to a time where he could lay down here all day, with no commitment, nothing stopping him at all. He took in a lung full of fresh air and slid his hand into Sherlock's, truly happy.

Sherlock woke up around dusk, with a smile on his face, something John hadn't seen in a while. "Hello." He greeted him with a hug. "Do you feel better now? It always used to help me when I dozed off here."

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was distant and dreamy. "Not quite as relaxed as the field, but not far off, either." He sat up slowly. "And…right now I can hear them, both of them. Liam's singing. Avery's quoting poetry. They're happy, John. All of me is _happy_." He ran his thumb along John's, watching the darkness fall. "I take it we go to the treatment centre tomorrow night so they can observe from the beginning of the weekend." He stood. "We should go now. It's getting dark." He helped John to his feet, smiling fondly.

They hailed a cab back and John dozed off in the back, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder. "I love you." He mumbled in his sleep, and Sherlock looked at him, uncomfortably.

When they arrived Sherlock quietly shook him awake and helped him into the flat. "I'm so tired, ugh. I can't sleep, I shouldn't." Sherlock shook his head and insisted that he did. John walked sleepily into his room and Sherlock joined him, as he still wasn't using his own room.

Sherlock was not without compassion as John still seemed deeply troubled. He wrapped one arm around John, comforting him to the level of physical contact Sherlock was able to handle. "You'll be fine, John." He kissed the top of his head, worried. "We'll all be fine, I promise. I don't know how yet, but trust me, we'll be fine." _ I hope._

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, unlike John, unable to sleep. He could see the hallucinations of the others at the moment, Liam sitting on the other side of John, watching him sleep and humming softly, Avery at the foot of the bed, smoking, thinking quietly, occasionally shooting irritated glances at Liam when his humming grew loud, but it didn't matter because the child that Liam manifested as couldn't see him.

It was strange to watch his other minds fall asleep first. First was Liam, cuddling up to John with a whispered _I love you_, dark curls flopping over his eyes as he squirmed into the open crook of John's left arm before vanishing like smoke. Avery took an hour later to sleep, and when he did, it was squeezed between Sherlock and John. Finally, at four in the morning, Sherlock drifted off into a dream of the field and forest mingled perfectly.


	8. Death's Hand is Gentle and Brutal

Sherlock phased in and realized they were in the cab. He'd only been dimly aware of what had happened that day, more than usual, but only vaguely, like someone with a fever and only semiconscious.

Avery had been cross with Liam, almost to the point of violence—Sherlock wasn't sure why. They both had played the violin, Avery's aggressive, soulful tones which, as ever sang only of freedom giving way to Liam's simple yet not infantile compositions. That much, Sherlock remembered. Somehow the music was able to pierce the mental darkness.

He sat up—he must have been Liam immediately before as he was laying against John's shoulder. He noted the amount of light outside—after dusk—and realized that they must be on their way to the clinic where Sherlock would spend a weekend under observation. "Good evening, John," he said. Then he registered that John's eyes were slightly red. "You've been crying," Sherlock observed.

"I'm okay." John sniffed, rubbing his eyes. "I just don't want you to go." Sherlock shook his head and looked out of the window, muttering something like 'pathetic.'  
>"Sorry." John sniffed again and he hugged Sherlock around his waist. "Is there anything you need? We can get it before you go." Sherlock hugged him back and frowned slightly before refusing.<p>

They got up to the clinic, it was much the same as any asylum you'd expect to see. Big brown turrets on the top, with black slate on the roof. The whole building was made out of a dulled brown; one of those built in the 60's no doubt. Sherlock looked up and winced slightly, thinking the same thing as John most probably. John decided to break the awkward silence with a cough. "Uhm, so, here it is."

"Obviously." Sherlock looked at the building, doing his best to hide his nervousness. He had no real reason to be nervous, but the building reminded him too much of the one in which his great-uncle Thom had spent his last few years. He lifted his suitcase, which contained very little—some clothes, Avery and Liam's art sets, nicotine patches for Avery (he wouldn't be allowed to smoke), toys for Liam, Sherlock's laptop and, in another case, his violin. He walked through the doors, John behind him, to check in.

The inside was sparkling and fresh. The architecture was obviously the same date as the exterior, but it was homely, neither sinisterly dark nor clinically clean. Doctor Hussey had just come around the corner when they entered.

"Ah, Sherlock?" Hussey examined the body language and Sherlock nodded. "Good, excellent. Come with me, please." He led them to a room on the far end of the building, far away from the others. "I'm afraid it'll be a little intimidating. Sorry about that." John was lagging behind and Sherlock shot _keep up_ glances at him. "John, you can come in, you know, it's not like you're forbidden," said Hussey. "Now Sherlock, as you can see, we've got cameras set up. We'd also like to monitor your cardiovascular and neural activity, so I'm afraid you'll have to wear wires." He winced apologetically.

"It's fine." Sherlock began taking off his shirt after closing the door. The nurses started putting the pads for the equipment on him, but he shyed away. "I'd rather John do that. If he doesn't mind."

Hussey nodded and shooed the nurses away. John gingerly went over and applied the pads onto his arm. Sherlock smiled at him, warmly. He planted a kiss on his head when he was done and moved back so Hussey could start whatever he needed to do.

"So, we're going to try with provoking your other minds. So, you tell me, what brings Liam to the front?" John sat down on a chair behind Hussey, knowing that if he slipped up, Avery would rip through and cause havoc. Sherlock explained this to Hussey, but he carried on anyway.

"Liam…seems triggered by child's things. Pirates, ice cream, toys. Fear, but not for myself and not for the physical safety of John." Sherlock looked at John. "If John's in serious emotional upset, Liam comes forward, but he's frightened." He shifted positions in the chair. "Avery's more…brutal. What wakes him up is cigarette smoke, Moriarty, anger, and fear for my or John's life. And possibly sex." He furrowed his brow. "I've yet to find anything to bring me back to the front for certain, though it would appear that the violin permits me some level of consciousness." _And cocaine_, he didn't say. "If you are going to draw them out, I recommend that John stay, and that there be a strong guard in the event Avery attempts to lash out."

Hussey agreed to it, and went on to bring Liam out. The room was small and white, but warm. It had a large television in it, medical equipment, barred windows and padded walls. John frowned slightly, wondering why they thought he needed the padded walls at all.

"So, John. What does Liam like the most? Apart from his friends and family."  
>"<em>Pirates of the Caribbean.<em>" John muttered, looking at Hussey with a strange look. Sherlock nodded. John passed him the boxset from his own bag and he put it on.

The instant the theme tune began, Sherlock's whole physicality changed. He relaxed and smiled, clearly Liam. But then he saw where he was and frowned. "Where am I? I don't like it, it reminds me too much of the bad room." He scooted close to John and held his arm. "I don't like being here, John, please can we leave? This stuff itches and I feel like I'm just a thing and not a person." He sniffled as Hussey explained it was necessary. "Okay, I'll try to be happy. May I have some ice cream? That will help a bit, with sprinkles. Vanilla."

It took a while, but eventually he had his ice cream and finished the film, by now able to quote the lines along with it, and he was very good at impressions. He was starting to smile again and took out Avery's sketchpad. He saw the note on it and started to cry:

_Don't touch my stuff, Liam, you little fuck, or I'll take the head off One-Eyed Seth and burn it._

"Why is Avery always so mean to me?" Liam placed the sketchpad back into Sherlock's bag and took out a Pirates of the Caribbean colouring book and his crayons, setting One-Eyed Seth the wooden pirate toy beside it. But he couldn't bring himself to colour. "Avery hates me. I don't understand. I thought it would be nice to share. He can borrow my things whenever he likes—except for One-Eyed Seth—so why is he upset when I borrow his things?" He was taking the wrapper off one of his crayons in distress.

"It's probably because it's the only thing he feels is his own." Hussey noted down what Liam was saying. "He doesn't have anything else, remember." A cold look crossed Liam's face and John knew that Avery was going to come through.  
>"I did tell Liam to leave it alone, but you have to remember that he has the body of a grown man and will do what he pleases." John tried to stop Avery from spewing abuse by putting his hand on his shoulder. "Calm down." He whispered. Avery looked up at him with quite a sad look and stayed quiet.<p>

"Damn it, John," Avery said softly. "D'you have any idea what it's like to not just want a shag but _need _it? More than a smoke!" He sat up, frustrated in more ways than one. "I'd say to hell with them watching, let's go at it now, but it's too fucking soon and all I'm going to be seeing is Moriarty." He threw Liam's colouring book before registering Hussey watching. "Wipe that look off your face," he snapped. He turned back to Liam's things. "Why can't the little prick learn to be respectful of my stuff? Fine, let's see how he likes it when I ruin one of his favourite things," he said, yanking the head off the toy, not irreparably, but enough to where the seven-year-old mind couldn't figure out how it went back together. He pulled off the arms and legs, as well, and was going to pull apart the torso when suddenly, his face melted into tears—Liam was back.

He saw what he was holding and burst into racking sobs. "Stop it, Avery, please stop it."

John took the toy and pushed the head back on, passing it back to Liam with a forced smile. "It's okay love, it's okay." Liam grabbed onto John's arm with a sob, and refused to let go.

"John, tell me what you want from this weekend? Would you like to have Sherlock back full time?" Hussey almost stared at him. John frowned, he wasn't sure. It would be like losing two friends.  
>"I hardly think that that's my decision." He coughed, with a small yet confused smile. "It's not fair to ask me." Hussey sighed and sat down with a frown.<br>"I've never seen anything like this. Split personality's don't usually fight."

"He's worse than Father," Liam muttered tearfully. His eyes started to droop, a sure sign of another imminent change, and then he wasn't crying any more. The shared silvery eyes looked around the room. "Oh," he said upon seeing the broken toy and the thrown-away colouring book. It was Sherlock. He sighed, exhausted. "Complete blank this time. And I can't feel them." He ran his hands through his hair. "I should mention, as it's getting late, that I still have trouble sleeping unmedicated. The nightmares. We've talked about this." Hussey nodded.

"Well, we've got a room for you for the night. Not exactly five-star, I'm afraid, but it's away from some of the more noisy residents." Sherlock stood and walked to the door. He was led down the corridor, and one of the female patients headed right for him, lustfully, and before anyone could do anything, she'd grabbed his crotch, prompting Avery to headbutt her, breaking her nose, before he retreated into his mind once again, leaving Sherlock shaky. "That was…please keep the nymphomaniac away from the rape victim," he said in a low voice.

They entered his private room, which was much like a hotel room, generic but not unpleasant. They gave Sherlock a sleeping pill, under Hussey's direction. "Will you stay, John? For the whole weekend? I think I might need you."

John shot a pleading look at Hussey. He nodded, and clicked out of the room. "I don't have any clothes with me, but I suppose I could text Mycroft and ask him to send some. He said he would."

_Staying with Sherlock, please bring my things up?  
>Many thanks- John.<em>

Sherlock slumped onto the bed before he even got changed. "Come on, before you pass out, get changed." He waved his arm in dismissal and started snoring. John sighed and lay down next to him, moving him onto his side. "I do love you." John whispered, kissing him on the nose. He waited until Mycroft knocked and gave him his clothes before he tried to sleep.

Sherlock was so utterly exhausted that he didn't so much as move a muscle all night. He had a peculiar dream: all three of his minds had to complete a task.

Avery's puzzle required compassion and self-restraint, and he failed utterly. He had to help a starving child carefully extract his own kidney while the child's mother screamed at him that he was useless and idiotic. His task ended when he slammed the surgical tools down on the table and attacked the mother for being so verbally abusive. The child went into cardiac arrest and died.

Sherlock was strapped to a polygraph machine, and was being interrogated about his drug habits, but strangely the drug in question was actually caffeine. He snarked off at the test administrator when asked how often he added other stimulants (namely sugar) to it, and when he truthfully answered, they told him he had to go a month without either. He frowned, but accepted the challenge, failing two hours in.

Liam had to cross an enormous chasm in the twilight, barely able to see, and only a basic rope bridge between. There were no hand-holds, either. He felt like crying, felt he couldn't do it, but when he heard John at the other side, he just steeled himself and ran for it, falling into John's arms at the other side.

Finally, there was an arena fight, the prize was John, dressed in an outfit fit for a Disney Prince (thanks, no doubt, to Liam's influence). They were all given different weapons. Avery had a large knife, similar to the one he'd used to kill, Sherlock had a gun, and Liam had a sword.

Avery sneered and instantly ran at Liam, screaming about how he had no respect for someone who was there first. Liam dropped his sword and ran for his life. Sherlock stood, watching the proceedings, not sure of what to do, the gun in his hand loaded. Avery was the one who had ruined him. Avery destroyed everything he had. Avery had to die.

He raised the six-shooter, aiming it at the killer who was chasing a child with murderous intent. Stop the child-killer. Stop Avery. His heart was pounding in his chest. He'd never killed before. But if it was Avery or others…

No. He couldn't do it. He couldn't kill, even if he did know it was just in his dream. Avery had his hand around Liam's throat, the knife in the other on the verge of touching the skin. Was this what he'd become? A killer, a child, and a coward? He raised the gun to his own head, unable to take it any longer. He shut his eyes.

Hands were prying the gun from him. Two hands. Child's hands. Liam's hands. "Don't do it, Sherlock. We all love you. We all need you." Sherlock opened his eyes and saw both Avery and Liam pleading with him. Liam gave the gun to Avery. "Don't you dare give up," Avery said. "Don't even think about it for a fraction of an instant, you beautiful, brilliant man." Then suddenly, both other minds hugged him and helped him to his feet. "You know what to do," Avery said, as Liam returned the gun to him. Sherlock turned to the game master, to Moriarty, and fired repeatedly, ending the dream.

"John?" He felt peaceful, more confident. Sherlock turned onto his side and saw that John, too, seemed peacefully asleep. His mouth twitched into a smile and he just sat and watched John breathe for the better part of an hour, the fresh sunlight streaming through the window.

John groaned and opened one eye sleepily. Sherlock was smiling at him, his glossy curls flopped over his eyes. "Morning," John smiled, dozily. He stretched and Sherlock was still watching him. "How long have you been watching me snoring my head off?" John laughed, and Sherlock looked away smirking. "Hussey said he wants to speak to Avery properly today." He looked at Sherlock worriedly.

They got up and changed, Sherlock put on one of Avery's shirt and frowned, complaining about it being far too tight, even for him. "Shall we go?" John fixed Sherlock's collar for him with a smile. Sherlock nodded and took John's hand as they left.

"Even the trousers are a size small. What is he, a superhero?" John snorted with laughter and Sherlock couldn't understand why. John said he'd explain later, and walked with Sherlock back to the padded room. Sherlock sat nervously in the chair. "I think I'm more comfortable with Avery, after last night's dream. But I still don't like the idea of intentionally provoking his appearance. He _has _killed five men."

"Nevertheless, I'd like a chance to talk to him exclusively." They were setting up a scent generator. Sherlock assumed it was to generate the smell of cigarettes in an effort to keep Avery present. He took a deep breath.

"I don't think this is an approved technique," said Sherlock, his nostrils flaring as the smell filled them. He shuddered and his eyes refocussed, Avery.

"I thought you wanted to see us in our natural habitat, without any attempt at forced transitioning," he said before smiling his half-sinister grin. "I approve of your smell-generator, though I doubt there's any nicotine in it." He crossed his arms haughtily, relishing the fact that he was in his own clothes—it made him feel like himself, a proper being, rather than something transient. "He's awake in there, Sherlock, I mean. Not terribly conscious, but awake. I can feel him fighting with himself to stay out of the way." He eyed Hussey carefully, deductive abilities as fierce as Sherlock's, but honed to a different goal—self-defense. "You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes. We want to know if you feel anything, _strange_ when you change. Fast pulse, dizziness, nausea, pains?" Avery smirked and flared his nostrils.  
>He got up and paced the room, his hands behind his back, explaining the transitions in full, aware that everyone in the room was hanging off his words.<p>

John stayed in the seat he was sat in, even as Avery walked past, stroking his face with a hungry glare.  
>"I see. So, apart from what you explained, do you feel anything else?"<p>

"Apart from the momentary disorientation which I've already explained, no. Sometimes there's a bit of weakness." Avery rolled his eyes at being asked to reiterate the description he'd just given. "There are things which prevent the changes. When Sherlock shoots up, I lose any awareness. He hasn't done that in a while, thank God. And apparently when I smoke, it drives Sherlock back. No idea about the wel—about Liam." He sat down in the soft chair, lounging back arrogantly. "I need a Goddamn shag. The endorphins would do me a universe of good." He reached up to scratch his head, but the EEG equipment made it near-impossible to get at the spot that itched. He settled for scratching near it.

John sighed and shifted in his chair. Hussey, noted down what he said and looked up. "Okay then. Why are you so violent towards Liam? It's unusual for split personalities to be violent to eachother." Avery laughed and leaned forward, with an odd smirk on his face.  
>"It's because he uses his art things. Avery doesn't like children." John answered for him, before Avery snapped.<p>

"We had a dream last night that reminded me of my priorities," Avery smirked. "Needs to be about Sherlock and John, not about how irritating I find Liam. He just really needs to learn respect for my things." Avery seemed calmer today, less violent. The dream had, in fact, reminded him that the cost of venting his frustrations concerning Liam was going to cost Sherlock his sanity if not his life. "I love Sherlock with the same fervour I love John, and I have to control my anger towards Liam for his sake." He seemed almost glum before snorting. "I guess if I need a so-called safe outlet, I can always get a violent game. Or use John's punching bag. Since I doubt there's a culturally acceptable substitute that emulates slitting throats." He stretched his chest, enjoying the tightness of his shirt, feeling the threads strain around the buttons, reminding him yet again that he was a person with his own passions and his own tastes.

Hussey noted everything and then dismissed them for an hour long break. Avery ripped off the wires and stormed out of the room, looking pretty annoyed. John thanked Hussey and left the room behind him.

"Avery," John followed him, trying to get his attention. He ignored him and stormed on. "Avery!" John grabbed his arm, only to be slammed to the wall by his throat. John was being held up by his neck, his feet dangling, whilst Avery, if it was him, smiled, wickedly at him. "Let go," John managed to croak out, and he was released onto the floor.

"You don't understand," Avery spat. "I'm not some _thing _that needs to be cooped up in a laboratory. I'm not something transient. I am a person. I have my own desires, my own needs, my own lust for life. _And I am not going anywhere_." He was tired of being analysed like a sickness, tired of not being allowed to live the life he wanted to just because of social restraints. "You need to learn that I have rights." His eyes were full of fire, triggered by a black thought that he'd had, the realization that John was most likely going to permit him to die, despite his declaration of love. "So stop acting like I'm diseased flesh to be cauterized and start acting like I've been here from the start." He stormed off again, shoving aside anyone who got in his way as he headed for the door of the facility.

"Someone stop him," Hussey shouted. Two large men quickly blocked Avery's path. They were taller than he was, and far more muscular, but Avery wasn't intimidated in the slightest.

"Get the hell out of my way," he hissed. They didn't move, so Avery charged them, violently. They grabbed him, holding his arms as he kicked out, swearing and threatening them if they didn't let go. A nurse ran over to him, sedatives in hand, and injected him with them. "No," he said, just before losing consciousness.

"What triggered that, I wonder?" Hussey was a bit confused as to what just happened and looked to John, who was rubbing his neck, for some hint of explanation.

John glared at Hussey and carried on walking. As he did, he texted Avery, although he'd probably be somebody else when he woke up.

_If you were a piece of diseased flesh to me, I wouldn't of shagged you or even developed feelings for you. If you lay your hands on me again, I won't be able to control my actions, Sherlock will understand._

_-John._

He went back to the hotel to wait for a phone call from Hussey telling him that Sherlock/Avery/Liam was awake.

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he woke up was the eerie quiet. There was literally no one in the room. Second was that he seemed to have been sedated. _We did try to warn them,_ Sherlock thought bitterly. He tried to sit up, but he was very dizzy. Add to this the fact that he had fresh bruises starting to form all along his arms. He'd been restrained, then. He was mildly hungry—probably around lunchtime by now. Where on Earth was John?

He fumbled his phone and read the message. Sherlock sighed. Why had Avery been violent toward John of all people?

_Where are you?  
>S<em>

He flopped backward onto the bed and waited for his head to clear a bit more from the sedatives or for John's response. Hussey entered the room. "Ah, you're awake."

"Obviously," Sherlock said quietly.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"Sherlock. What happened?"

"Avery had a small fit and attacked John before attempting to leave the facility. We had to sedate him."

"I noticed the last part." Sherlock rubbed his face. "But why did he attack John?"

Hussey shrugged. "We don't know, exactly, but he was talking about how he didn't feel as though he was being treated as a person. Prior to his outburst, I asked if we could take an hour-long break. After sedation, is it common for your other minds to be suppressed?"

"Yes. Until I metabolize it. The same goes for other drugs, which we've discussed in private." Sherlock rolled onto his side and tried to sit up again. "I take it the afternoon today is reserved for Liam, and then tomorrow it's going to be a day of natural transitions?"

Johns phone chimed, he woke up on the floor. _Must have fell off the bed._ This time, the voice in his head was his own. He smiled to himself.

_On my way to wherever you are now. I missed you._

_-J x_

He got up, showered and changed. Hussey didn't call him, which confused him a fair bit, and he decided to wait until he did.

Sherlock got dressed in his own clothes, able to breathe properly now, and waited. Hussey had said he'd call John while Sherlock changed, so he waited. The sedative was wearing off, and he noticed that the distance between his own mind and Avery's was dangerously thin—he could hear the rambled angry whispers of Avery's thoughts clearly, but not overcoming his own. It was the first time that it had happened since he'd taken too much of his previous medication, and it unsettled him. He put his hands together in his thinking position and lay back on the bed, trying to wrestle Avery's mind into some sort of unobtrusive location.

"He's on his way," came Hussey's voice. "What's going on, Sherlock?" He sat in the chair across from the bed.

"Avery…I can hear his thoughts. Whispers, almost. It's…distressing. His mind is as active as my own, and the torrent of concepts is overwhelming. I can't hear Liam. Just Avery. I haven't been this close since I was on the medication Doctor Wilson prescribed."

"Hmm." Hussey wrote it down, concerned. "Why did you stop taking it?"

"Because of the whispers," Sherlock said, quite irritated as he'd explained this before. "I got desperate to silence them so I took twice the dose. There was a complete merge. Both Avery and I were codominant and could barely register anything external. That was before Liam." He twitched nervously. "As the sedative is wearing off, they're getting louder. My own thoughts are louder, but it's distracting and unnerving. He has a very one-track mind." Sherlock shook his head. "Shut up."

**Sherlock's blog:**

**Not having a good day, to be honest.**

First I had a bit of a peculiar and unpleasant dream. It's a bit of a blur, but I remember there was something to do with a task and all but Liam failed utterly. Then there was a gladiatorial arena and the three of us had to fight, and Avery ran after Liam and was about to kill him. I thought the only way to save him was to kill Avery with the gun I'd been given, but I couldn't and thought I ought to shoot myself instead. Fortunately Liam and Avery banded together to stop me.

After I woke up, it was nice to see John peacefully sleeping. I felt almost nostalgic. I miss what it was like before what Moriarty did. Before the Fall. Before our courtship. I miss having that lack of obligation. I feel so tethered to him. But I need it sometimes, and I know it.

Dr. Hussey wanted to speak to Avery for a large portion of the day. I dressed in his clothes, which are obscenely tight, I may add, and went into a padded cell where a scent generator was set up to pump out the smell of tobacco smoke. It's hateful, having to wait for a change, knowing it's coming, and having to let it happen without a fight. I don't like relinquishing control.

Then I had to. Avery flooded in, and for once I was quite aware of what he was doing. It was strange, sort of feverishly delusional, but I was aware all the same. Hussey asked about how he felt when there was a transition—was there any dizziness, nausea, et cetera. I'm not sure if I don't prefer oblivion in those moments. The smell was pushing me back, and the last I remember was him talking about how much he wanted to shag.

From what I've gathered, he then accosted John and tried to leave the facility. He had to be tranquillised, which is probably what brought me to the forefront. There's significant bruising on my arms. They must have had to hold him tightly. John's gone to the hotel he rented, and Hussey says he's on his way back. Avery must have been incredibly abusive to make John leave.

Now I'm awake again, obviously. I can still hear Avery ranting in my mind. He's incessant, talking about how he deserves a life, too, not just to be sequestered to certain portions of mine. It's not his voice I hear—it's his thoughts. And as the tranquilliser wears off, they're growing louder. I don't think he'll surface again for a bit, but I really don't like where I am at this moment, and there's only one thing I've found to reliably shut him up and needless to say, I won't be given any. I feel a bit desperate.

Side note: Liam is perfectly silent. I think he's unwilling to engage in a confrontation. He tends to be aversive to violence or arguments.

John knocked on the door, Hussey welcomed him in. Hussey clicked on a tape recorder, like in a police interrogation. He mentioned that John had walked in, and went on to ask Sherlock questions.  
>"What are the voices saying, Sherlock?" Sherlock got up and paced around, muttering to himself, clutching his head. John got up, despite Hussey telling him not to, to hold Sherlock.<br>"Shh, it's okay." John whispered. Sherlock looked up, frightened.  
>"We need to stop this session. He's not ready for it." John demanded.<p>

"No, I can…I can relay." Sherlock's breaths were shaky, and he began to rapidly quote Avery's thoughts. It was clear that at his rapid-fire way of thinking, his mouth was never going to reach the correct speed, but he did his best. "Burning, aching, acid, fire, if I use a scalpel it'll hurt the most, a red-hot sharp knife in the penis," Sherlock's words grew to a speed that it was hard to even make out what he was saying. His voice was cracking with emotion as he spoke. "Judge, jury, executioner for what they did to them, to him, to us, kill them both, murder them, rip their testes off of their still-conscious forms tied to the rooftop in a country far from England—somewhere in the heat. They will die delusional but knowing why they died. Strangling is too kind; let them bleed from their scrota until they die. They'll never hurt John or Sherlock again because they will be dead, dying like the monsters they are, dying for what they did to John, dying for what they did to Sherlock, their blood would not be fit for the Devil to bathe in, nor for humans to touch. Filth. Filth. Demons, monsters, scum—they must die, they must die, they must die." Sherlock's eyes were shut—he really hated tuning into Avery's thoughts, but it seemed necessary to properly evaluate him. "I've killed before; it won't be hard to kill again, refine the technique to cause the most pain. Moran is first so that Moriarty can watch because I know he cares about his little pet, and I'll tie him naked in the sun with ropes made of Moran's entrails or maybe I'll use a bomb, that'd be fitting, plant a bomb inside Moriarty while I torture him so he knows he only has a few minutes left to live out his torment, yes, I'll put it in a pill, put a timer on the bomb, force it down his throat and watch as he panics. And then when the timer runs down—" Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He was shaking, badly, his mouth clamped shut, physically ill and fighting terror. He looked up at John, pleadingly. "Do you see what I have to live with, what goes on in his head? Do you understand why I needed the cocaine?" His shaking hands were holding John's arms to the point where his fingernails were on the verge of breaking skin.

John felt a single hot tear rolling down his cheek. "I'm so sorry." he whispered, clinging onto Sherlock, utterly shocked. Hussey called the session to an end, at least until they had both calmed down, and he walked out of the room.

"Sherlock, I had no idea." John whispered, still not able to speak properly. He was holding Sherlock's head on his chest whilst they both sobbed. "Let's go back to the hotel, we shouldn't stay here, not like this." Sherlock nodded, stood up and pulled on his coat. John followed behind him, clinging onto his hand like a lost child. "I'm sorry." He mumbled, and Sherlock told him he shouldn't think that it's his fault. "But it is." He sobbed, loudly.

"In what way is it your fault?" Sherlock was obviously fighting the urge to relapse into a deeply emotional state. "Moriarty came after me, it's me he wanted to torture." Hussey was only permitting Sherlock to leave on the word that he'd be back tomorrow to let him interview Liam properly. He shut his eyes and shook his head, once again muttering for Avery to shut up. He did so every few minutes on the way back to the hotel. "He's getting louder," Sherlock whispered as they stepped out of the cab. He held John's hand tightly, desperately as John paid the cabbie. They got into the lift (their room was on the third floor), and Sherlock stared into the mirrored walls, eyes narrowing as if asking his reflection what was going on. The doors shut and the lift started moving. Sherlock stepped aggressively toward the reflection. "Stop it!" His shouting was borderline hysterical. "Stop it now, just stop it!" Fortunately the lift was empty except for the two of them, and Sherlock was able to regain some composure as they reached their floor. "Please, John," he said the instant the door to their room closed. "You know what I need. You know who has some. I wouldn't ask for it if it weren't this desperate a situation. _Please_."

"No," John breathed. "I love you too much to see you like that again. The best I can give you is the medicine that our therapist gave us." He sat down on the floor, his back against the bed. Sherlock picked up one of the lamps and smashed it, roaring. "No." John said, crying silently. "I can't." He slid onto the floor, just lying there, silently weeping. Sherlock paced the room, swearing loudly and kicking things; begging John every so often until he got the point that John would not give in. "I'm sorry." John whispered.

"I can't take it today, John. He's too strong. I can't—" It seemed Sherlock was at breaking point when suddenly his eyes rolled backward and the face became Avery's face, but only for a split second before returning to Sherlock. "It hurts, John, today it hurts." He fell onto the bed and screamed into the pillows with all his might, trailing off into sobs. "It's not just the words, it's the images. I'm a visual thinker, so is he. Everything, every ounce of violence and hate…" He sat up and charged for John, grabbing him by the shoulder. "The sleeping pills, where are they? If I take them with the other medication, I might just manage."

"You're not meant to mix them…" John sat up and thought, hard. "I could…- no." Sherlock frowned and asked him to go on. "I could knock you out, it might clear your mind." He got up and paced the room, muttering, thinking aloud. "I don't want you to mix them, one or the other, or nothing at all." Sherlock smashed the other lamp and kicked over the bin.

He jumped onto the bed, and punched the pillows, screaming. "Calm down, we'll figure something out." John had to lie on top of him before he would stop beating the pillows. "Trust me, I'll think of something."

There were times that afternoon that the imagery of Avery's violent fantasies grew too much for even the detective to manage, and it was hard to tell if he was screaming or sobbing. By six o'clock, he had no voice left at all, but if he could have, the screaming tears would have persisted. He needed to change to Avery—if he did, there was a chance he would lose awareness of the gory scenes that were constantly in Avery's mind, and worst of all, the sensation of pleasure Avery felt in association. But he couldn't.

"I'm insane," Sherlock mouthed at six forty-five, eyes red and skin warm as if feverish. Liam was singing to him now, that old French lullaby being sung in the voice of a child, a desperate attempt to calm Sherlock. It was combining with the too-vivid violent images to produce a truly warped mindset, one which Sherlock found himself unable to rise above. "My God, John, I'm _insane_."

"No, shh. No you're not." John texted Hussey.

_Sherlock is extremely bad now. Please come to the hotel right away._

_-John Watson_

He sat up and and stroked his head, trying his best to sing him into a deep sleep, but instead Sherlock was crying, clutching onto him with a deep and wild look in his eyes. "Doctor Hussey is coming to see you now, we'll sort this out, shh, it's okay, love. I'm here, although it's not much." Sherlock shook his head and screeched, rather like an owl.

John picked him up and awkwardly wrapped the duvet around him, like an over-sized baby. He tried to rock him to sleep, but Hussey knocked on the door before he had the chance.  
>"What's happening Sherlock?" He rushed in and sat down, opposite them.<p>

Sherlock felt a little better, wrapped tightly to where he couldn't move. But he was still in torment. "Make it stop, please, make him stop, I'll do anything," he half-croaked, half-whispered. It sounded almost demonic, and the fact that his eyes had started to roll back didn't do anything to dispel that image. "Avery's fantasies…oh, God, make them stop…Liam's singing, it's helping, but not much…" He shut his eyes, the pain of speaking almost as bad as the pain of thinking. He opened them again not long after as the shutting of his eyes made the images all the more vivid. "I need to change, but he's not coming forward. If he did, I could probably black out, but I can't." He was trying to maintain a level of decorum in front of someone he didn't consider a friend, but he was shaky at best. "It won't stop. His mind is as active and vivid as mine and just _shut up!_" His slightly vocal whisper lost any hint of a voice as he tried to scream at his own brain.

Hussey looked very worried, knowing that his provoking of Avery earlier probably had something to do with Sherlock's current state. "I'm going to leave for a bit and come back," he said. "I'll have tranquilliser that will help you sleep. Then I'd like to see you back at the hospital tomorrow so that we can try to talk to Liam. Is that alright?"

"Liam…screaming now, too. The violence…too much violence…"

Hussey stood, putting a hand on John's shoulder. "Stay with him, Doctor Watson. I'd have him back at the hospital now if you weren't a military man and a doctor. I'll return in half an hour." John nodded and returned to rocking Sherlock, who was shaking violently and trying to beg John further.

"Don't leave me alone, John," he croaked ten minutes after Hussey left. "Not for anything. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to stay off the balc…" He didn't need to finish the word.

"I'm not leaving you. I promised you, remember? Until you want some space I'm not leaving you." John was trying not to cry, if he was calm then maybe Sherlock would calm down. "I'm going to text Mycroft, okay? He might know what to do better than I do."

_text: Mycroft_

_Sherlock needs you. He's breaking down._

_-John._

Sherlock started mumbling incoherently, his eyes were searching the room for something, anything that would help him. John remembered that he'd asked Mycroft to bring Hamish. He pulled his bag over with his foot and pulled Hamish out. "It's not much, but maybe this will help?"

"Hamish," Sherlock muttered in his broken-voice whispers. "Yes, Hamish." John let Sherlock's arms out of the wrap and he clung to Hamish with one arm and John with the other. Just the soft fur of the bear calmed him slightly. "I have my John and my Hamish." John's phone chimed.

_On my way.  
>Mycroft<em>

"These are his thoughts, John, all the time," Sherlock's knuckles were white, but then again so was the rest of him. "A thousand times more powerful than his words." John's phone rang. It was Mycroft.

"Let me speak to him," Mycroft demanded. John held the phone to Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock, just hold on. I am going to make sure that everything is going to be fine." Sherlock tried to say something, but his voice was too weak. "You'll damage your vocal cords if you try to speak. I'm coming, Sherlock. I love you. Stay strong." The declaration of love was extremely powerful coming from the elder Holmes, who had only said it once or twice in his life, and only to Sherlock in his blackest moments. Sherlock gulped, eyes wild and panicked as Mycroft hung up.

"Shut up," he whispered again. "Stop thinking, just stop." Hussey returned to their room and registered what was going on.

"Sherlock, I have the tranquilliser," he said, uncertain if Sherlock could hear him.

"Like all the world's anger and hate exploding inside me…make it stop, please, I hate this, make it stop."

Hussey took out the syringe. "That's what we're here for, Sherlock. I need your arm, please." Sherlock practically threw it at Hussey, desperate for some relief from Avery's mind, the volume of his thoughts now exceeding his own but still somehow not taking over. Hussey found the vein and injected him, and Sherlock's eyes started to droop. The last thing he whispered was "Don't leave," and then he went totally slack.

John told Hussey what Sherlock had said about the balcony. The psychiatrist looked extremely worried by this. "That's extremely worrying. It means that on his good days, he can almost be back to normal, but on his bad days, he may be so desperate to quiet Avery's mind that he's borderline suicidal." He ran his hand through his thinning hair. "I've never had a patient quite like him."

Just then, there was a knock on the door and Mycroft was let in. He had a good façade of not worrying, but when he saw Sherlock, it slipped for an instant. "How is he?" Hussey said nothing, but his body language told Mycroft everything. "Ah," Mycroft said. "When will the tranquilliser wear off?"

"Given his drug history, I'd say no longer than six hours. But there's no guarantee that Sherlock will be the dominant personality when he does. And you mustn't leave him alone for the slightest instant. That includes things that are normally private like bathing and urinating."

"I understand." Mycroft turned to John. "Until he returns to hospital, we'll take shifts watching him. I'll go first. Go to sleep, Doctor Watson."

"I already said I would look after him, I can manage for another hour or two, I'm not tired." John insisted, but Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Fine."  
>John passed Sherlock over to him, like he was a baby, and curled up in the bed, without a duvet, and dropped off to sleep.<p>

John was woken up by Mycroft speaking rather loudly on the phone. He didn't move, instead he just listened.  
>"Yes, he's not well at the moment, father. Yes. When is Zapharia going to come over? You mean you haven't mentioned anything? Right. Okay then, I'll come and pay you a visit if you like. No? I shan't get another chance. Yes father. Goodbye." His phone beeped and he slipped it back into his pocket. John yawned and sat up.<br>"Hello Doctor Watson. Will you take over now?" John nodded and Mycroft left.  
><em>What on earth is going on?<em>

Sherlock smacked his mouth and opened his eyes groggily—he shouldn't have been awake yet. "John, where's Mycroft?" It was Liam. "I heard him shouting." He rolled over and pulled Hamish to him. "Sherlock's scared and hiding. Avery's bored. I'm just sleepy." He dropped off again, drooling into Hamish's neck and didn't move the rest of the night.

The sun rose and it was Liam again who woke. He stretched like a child and poked John, who had drifted off. "John, I'm hungry. I want doughnuts. Did I eat anything yesterday?" He whopped John with Hamish playfully. "Please may I have doughnuts? The custard-filled kind?"

"Sure," He grimaced. "I don't want him to be scared. He's safe here, nobody is going to hurt him." Liam nodded and hugged John. "Come on, I'm going to text Mycroft and then we'll go find you some doughnuts." Liam licked his lips with a smile.

_He's awake, it's Liam right now. Hussey will want to see him._

_-John._

John got up and ready, making sure Liam put something comfortable on. He left the hotel room with Liam clinging onto his arm, jumping up and down. "Calm down," John put his finger on his lips and Liam stopped, with a slight smile. "Hussey will want to talk to you today."

"I know," Liam said. "I'm not stupid. I just want doughnuts before I have to go back to the soft room." They went into the lift and Liam caught sight of his reflection. "No," he whimpered, voice still strained from last night's screaming. He shut his eyes until the lift dinged that they'd arrived at ground level. "Avery's scary. Even Sherlock is scared of him." Liam's face was dark and cold, like someone trying to hide in public. "Please don't make him come out again. I want to be happy."

Liam ate half a dozen doughnuts (because he was right, he hadn't eaten yesterday), and he was licking the last bits of custard cream from his fingers as they walked back into the hospital. "You will stay with me, won't you, John? While they talk to me?" John was also carrying Hamish, just in case Liam felt the need to cling to it for comfort, though it did earn him some odd looks. "My hands are sticky," Liam frowned. "I need to wash them."

Once they'd done so, they went back into the padded room and sat down, Liam insisting on sitting on the floor where he found it more comfortable. Today the scent generator was spitting out puffs of candy floss scent, and it made Liam feel like he was at a carnival. "I'll do my best to answer you," he told Hussey, "But I'm not as brave as Sherlock so I might get scared at some of the questions."

Hussey pulled out a folder from his briefcase. "So, I'm going to start with the simple questions. What do you feel about Avery?" John winced immediately.  
>"That's not simple. He's scared of him." John snapped, walking over to sit next to Liam. Doctor Hussey frowned and looked over the questions.<br>"I might have to re-think. I'll be back in ten minutes." He left, leaving John cradling Liam on the floor. Liam was frowning at the door, his arms folded, with a slight pout on his face.  
>"Ignore him. I think we need a new doctor, to be honest." John spat.<p>

"But…" Liam was confused. "Is he not doing his job? He seems okay to me." Liam felt more at ease with John holding onto him. "I do want Avery to go away but I think he deserves to live too. He's not nice, but he's still alive." Liam grabbed John's shirt. "I feel nice today. They're quiet and it's peaceful." He smiled up at John, and John could see that he was, in fact, almost happy today. "Will you play a game with me while we wait for him to come back? We don't have any cards but we can use our imaginations like Mycroft and I used to do. We played in our mind palaces and chased each other with words, kind of like word association." Liam explained, as John seemed confused. "You say something and I'll say what comes into my head first, and then you say what that makes you think of." Liam looked hopeful—he did share Sherlock's incessantly thinking mind and he was liable to grow bored quickly.

"Basically, he hasn't done anything. He's not helping. Things have got worse since we've been seeing him and I just think we should try and see other doctors." John sighed and looked deep into Liams eyes. "Look. I'm in love with Sherlock, and Avery. Sherlock more so, and it'll always be that way. Avery thinks that I don't appreciate him, and that I want him to go. I don't. I just know it'll be easier for Sherlock if he does." Liam pulled a quite sad face and hugged John.  
>"Fine. My word is warmth." John smiled.<p>

Liam smiled. "Fireplace," he smiled and put his head on John's shoulder, his mind flashing to the good evening they'd had in Louis's bistro, soaking and caked in mud. "Fireplace is the word but the picture is of the bistro in France." Liam's grinned, the image alone filling him with peace and joy. "I love you, John, I love you so much I think my heart could burst into golden glitters when you smile." He was tearing up with unexpected happiness. He kissed John's cheek, blushing slightly. "Love you forever and ever until the universe ends." Liam hugged him tightly, not out of a fear of losing him, but out of a desire to stay as close as possible as if to merge physically with him. "The word is fireplace," he said, muffled by John's shirt.

John grinned and kissed him back on the cheek. "I love you too, Liam. I love all of you, in different ways. I just want you all to be happy." Liam nuzzled against him with a smile. "Hm, let's see. Fireplace makes me think of.." He thought back to when he and Sherlock had curled up in front of the fireplace to sleep. He'd woken up wrapped around his legs like he was the only safe thing in the world.  
>"Safety. I remember lying in front of a fireplace with Sherlock, warm and happy. Before we got into this mess." He looked sad, and nodded at Liam to show him that he should carry on the game.<p>

"Safety is you. You and Mycroft, but mostly you." Liam looked into John's eyes. "Don't be sad, John. Please don't be sad." They didn't have time to continue the game as Hussey returned, looking a little confused and carrying a prescription pad.

"I have to tell you that no medication will make Sherlock stay in front with no influence from the others—no legal medication, anyway, apparently. The best we can do is to lessen the severity of the changes. Make it manageable." He handed John a note. "I'd like him to try this medication for a solid week, unless something goes horribly wrong. It's only a once-a-day dose, so it should be easy to remember."

Liam frowned. "John says you're not doing your job right." John facepalmed. "But I guess we'll try it. But I don't want to go away. I want to stay here where I'm happy. Inside Sherlock's mind is cold like…" He trailed off. "Like a warehouse," he finally whimpered. "But not like that warehouse, just like a plain one. It's just Avery and Sherlock and me in a great big empty cold space and it's not fun." He looked up at John, a clear _Do I have to take it?_ in his eyes.

John frowned and nodded at Liam. "So there's nothing you can do to help, basically." John snapped at Hussey. "I'm at the end of my tether. I need to help them, and nobody is trying but me and Mycroft." John stood up and pulled Liam to his feet. "Come on." John walked out and took the prescription from Hussey's hand. Liam trailed after him, asking him what was wrong. "Nothing. Shall we go and buy you some new toys?"

Liam nodded, happier at the prospect of owning some things for himself. While the prescription was filled, they went to a mid-range toy store—nothing like the posh boutique of hand-crafted toys they'd been at the other day, but not super-cheap, either. Liam was filling up a handbasket with action figures, toy cars, and a few games. He avoided anything to do with non-fantasy violence (wizards and aliens were allowed, soldiers and policemen were not), smiling as he imagined the sort of adventures they'd get into.

He was staring at a set of toy weapons made of a child-friendly foam when suddenly he snapped. "This is absurd," Avery snarled. "I am not a child!" He reached into the shelf and threw everything on the floor before his posture melted and he put his fists to his head. "Stop it, Avery, please, I'm trying to be happy, just stop." John ran to comfort him, and people were starting to stare. "I—I'm okay now, John," Liam whispered. "Avery's inside again." He looked up at John, confused. "Why won't Sherlock wake up? It's like he doesn't want to even be aware of what's going on." John rocked him gently. "I think I'm fine," Liam said after a few moments.

One of the store employees approached. "I'm sorry, sirs, but I'm afraid I have to ask you to come to the checkout and purchase your items and then leave." She was trying to throw them out in the nicest way possible. John pulled Liam to his feet and led him to the door. "May I have a video game, John? I need the system, too, but I think if we got some games for me and some for Avery it will help."

"Sure. But not from here. We have to go." John sighed and pulled him towards the checkout. They bought the items and left, John cursing under his breath at Avery.

They arrived at the video game store, and John kept a close eye on Liam. "Choose what one you want, and we'll go home. Mycroft said he'll collect our things from the hotel."

Liam chose a Nintendo DS and a Gameboy. John didn't really mind, as long as it made him happy. He bought a few games, including '_The legend of Zelda,' _and _'Super Mario Brothers'_ to start with.  
>"Shall we go?" John gestured to the door. Liam nodded and held onto his hand. "I just want to go home." He muttered.<p>

"Me too," Liam said sadly. "I'm sorry I'm so bad for everything. I'm trying to be a good person, I really am, but Avery makes it hard and why won't Sherlock wake up?" Liam was starting to cry, but shut his eyes. "Avery is trying to hug Sherlock with words or something but he's still too quiet. I'm scared for Sherlock. He's very…um…I don't know the word. Closed off, I guess, like he's shut himself in a safe room and doesn't want to come out." Liam hugged John. "I hope he'll be okay."

Sherlock's phone chimed with a message from Mycroft concerning their father.

_Do you think you'll be well enough to come to the hospital? Father has days, Sherlock, not weeks or months.  
>MH<em>

Liam's eyes welled up as he replied that Sherlock wasn't available. "F—Father," he whimpered. "He's dying, John. Mycroft thinks he has less than a week."

"Don't apologize. You've done nothing. Now about your father… I think we should go and visit him. He's back in France though…" John put his head to one side with a confused look. "Are you sure Sherlock would want to go?" Liam nodded, but then Avery came through, swearing and shouting, demanding that everyone listened to him.  
>"I am listening to you, but it's kind of difficult when you're held back, isn't it? Sherlock has to go and see him, Avery. Stop it."<p>

"That piss-ant never did anything for me," Avery sneered. "Why should I do anything for him? He never gave me any positive attention. I'm just returning the favour." He crossed his arms and stared out the window of the cab as they pulled up to Baker Street. "It's either that or we fly to France and I strangle him with my bare hands before Nature can do it for me." He turned back to John. "No? Didn't think so."

Avery slammed the door when he got inside. "Why the hell isn't Sherlock doing anything? He's scaring the shit out of me. It's like he's too scared of anything. I can feel Liam in there moving around, but it's like Sherlock's not even trying. Hell." He took out a cigarette and fiddled with it before putting it back in the drawer. "Wake up, you damned idiot."

"He's not an idiot, he's just tired. Leave him to rest. And put that down, now." John pulled the cigarettes and snapped them. "You're quitting." Avery snarled and slammed him against the wall again. John, this time, reacted, and knocked him out.

He carried him to the couch, putting a blanket over him. He put a film on whilst he was unconscious, so he didn't feel alone when he woke up.  
>He then went downstairs to speak to Mrs Hudson, checking with the security outside that the place was secure.<p>

Mrs. Hudson answered the door after a long few seconds during which she was probably getting dressed. "Oh! Back already? I thought you were going to spend the whole weekend out. I've just made some tea, would you like some?" She beckoned John inside and got out a cup.

Meanwhile, upstairs, in Sherlock's head, he was weak and frightened, Liam and Avery trying to make him get up. There were no words to his dream, only images, vague swirling colours like tendrils keeping him still.

"There you are, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, handing John his tea and looking very motherly. "How is it going with you boys?"

"Not very well." John sipped his tea. "I had to knock him out. Avery, that is. Sherlock isn't around right now." Mrs Hudson nodded, and went over to the fridge.  
>"Cake?" John nodded, remembering that he hadn't eaten much at all this weekend. "You're looking rather thin, John. I'm worried."<br>John ate his slice of cake quickly, thanked Mrs Hudson and went back upstairs.

He was still passed out. John sat on the couch and tapped him. "Sherlock, come out. Please. I miss you."

Sherlock/Avery/Liam made a sound like a question mark as John lifted him to the bedroom a few hours later. It seemed as though John's punch had forced the three minds into a conversation that no one else was allowed in on. Just before dawn, John was awakened by Sherlock's movements. Sherlock was quivering, not out of fear, but something else that John couldn't quite make sense of. And his jaw was clenching and unclenching, swallowing every few minutes, and gasping. Suddenly his eyes snapped open, an expression on his face John had only seen when he'd been shooting up, a curious combination of pleasure and relief.

Then he blushed. "I, um…I have to shower." It was clearly Sherlock this morning who cleared his throat and made a sudden trip to the bathroom. He took about fifteen minutes longer than usual, too, and emerged sheepishly. "So, where did we leave off with Hussey?" He clearly didn't know he was missing a whole day.

It took John about a minute to wake up and realize what Sherlock had been doing. _Oh…_

When Sherlock came out asking what happened with Hussey, John decided not to bring anything up.  
>"He wants you to try these pills." He pointed at the bed-side table. Sherlock grimaced, but took one anyway.<br>"You're missing a day." John pointed out, trying his best to hold a straight face because of what had happened before. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, questionably and pulled on some clothes.

"Nothing too dramatic, I hope," Sherlock said, though knowing his life, he doubted it. John explained about the toy store and the fact that Hussey apparently didn't have a clue what to do next. Sherlock frowned. "There's something else, isn't there?" John hadn't mentioned the text from Mycroft about their father, but now seemed as good a time as any. "Oh," was all Sherlock said, a hint of an emotion somewhere between regret and despair in his eyes. "Book the next available flight. He's in Paris."

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat down. Already he could feel his new medication at work, numbing his mind, calming his emotions. He liked it, enjoyed the fact that he was returning to some semblance of emotional neutrality. He figured he was going to need it later. "I'm fine," Sherlock said as John asked if he was okay. "Out of curiosity, what was the face for earlier? The 'I'm trying not to laugh at you' face? Was I behaving peculiarly when I was asleep?"

"You _could_ say that." John smirked. Sherlock asked him to elaborate but he was laughing too much to speak.  
>"You were," giggle, "Sorry, give me a moment." He calmed down. "Uhm," He gestured to Sherlock's crotch. "You know, you were…" Sherlock frowned, and then finally got it. "Yeah…" Sherlock blushed violently, and made an excuse so he could go into the living room.<p>

After about fifteen minutes, he came back in, still bright red, but feeling the need to explain. "I was…I was dreaming. Avery. Um." Sherlock cleared his throat, embarrassed despite the emotional numbness of the medication. "We. Um. I can see why you'd form a sexual bond with him," was how he finished the explanation. "And, of course, it being a dream, there was no risk of permanent injury. Because of…" He gestured to John's scarred neck. He went into the kitchen and quickly drank a glass of water so he wouldn't have to say anything else. "Well. It was different being on the receiving end." He put his glass down, eager to change the subject. "Booked the flight yet?"

John frowned. "Avery looks exactly like you, and you dreamed about shagging him? Pardon me, but that's bordering on narcissism." He smirked. "Anyway, yeah. The flight is booked and we're leaving tonight. Can I ask… Was he better than me?" John bit his lip with a worried look in his eyes.

"I think it was more like he dreamed of shagging me, to be honest. He was certainly in charge." Sherlock ran his hand along the back of his neck. "No flights sooner?" John knew Sherlock was trying to be evasive, and insisted on getting an answer. "Well, considering the fact that the physics of dreams don't follow that of reality, and that I…" His voice dropped. "I didn't have to worry about severing any arteries to indulge…my…my kink, for lack of a better term…yes, I'd have to say yes. But don't worry about it. As I've said, you're bound by the laws of physics and he's not." John looked hurt anyway, so Sherlock tried to cheer him up. "Though I still prefer you. It may have been vastly superior, in my mind, with Avery, but he couldn't replace you. No one could." Sherlock winced. "Going to be a bit tricky to explain to Doctor Wilson without coming off as…I don't know." He sighed and looked at John. There was something he'd been meaning to ask for some time. "John," he said softly. "When you were in the hospital…when you thought you were dying, and you called for me, you called for Avery first. And then Liam. I was last. That…it offended me slightly. I know you were delirious. I know you weren't right in your own mind. But sometimes delirium reveals the truth. I thought I should tell you that it hurt."

"I remember that. He was the dominant personality, I think. I don't know. All I remember is cigarette smoke caused me to call for him. That's all I remember." Sherlock looked at his feet with a sad look. "I love you." John pulled his face back up to his own level. "I do. More than Avery, always more. He knows that. I didn't mean to call for him first, really. I don't even remember anything properly." John stammered and sighed. "Let's forget about it, yeah?"

"Easier said than done, though I am willing to forgive it." Sherlock flashed a smile. Only then could John see that there was a dead look behind Sherlock's eyes, completely unemotional. "This medication is…good," Sherlock said. "My emotions are back where I prefer them—silenced. It's reassuring." He stood and went to his room to pack. "I've no idea how long we'll be there," he called. "I'm packing for a week. Not expecting to be there longer than that."

When he came out an hour later, he had three suitcases, though John really had no idea he even had that many. "I've packed for Avery and Liam as well, in separate cases. That way, they won't be cross with one another for invading each other's space."

John smiled and nodded, but it wasn't genuine. He hated it when Sherlock felt nothing. It was always the same where his 'feelings' for John were concerned, but it was worse when it was everything.  
>He swallowed and wiped his eyes; he'd started crying a bit, but Sherlock hadn't noticed.<br>"I'm all packed." John croaked. "Want to go out today? We have until about half ten."

"Mm, yes, starving. Does your mother's restaurant chocolate pancakes." The inflection in his voice hadn't changed at all as he'd transitioned to Liam; only the words betrayed him. He blinked. "I feel strange," he said. "Too cold. Empty. Sort of holl—serve breakfast?" Sherlock caught John's look. "What? I changed again, didn't I?" Sherlock picked up his coat. "I didn't even notice. Just a time-jump. Shall we?"

Sherlock hailed a cab and was silent for the whole trip. "I feel right, John," he said as he paid the cabbie. "This one is working. Perhaps a bit too well, but better too well than not well enough. Table for two," he said smoothly, and ordered a water as he sat down, once again at the VIP table.

John stayed quiet whilst Sherlock rambled on about something. He noticed how smug his tone was, and the smirk that played across the edges of his mouth. He sipped on his water and nodded, not saying anything. John's uncle came over and took their order, noticing John's expression.  
>"Are you okay, son? You look rather ticked off." John waved his hand dismissively and his uncle nodded and walked off to put the order through.<p>

He looked over the table at Sherlock again, who was talking about his best cases with a grin on his face. John stopped him mid-sentence.  
>"I don't like you when you're like this." He almost snapped. "It's like I don't even exist."<p>

Sherlock frowned. "John, this is _me_. This was how I was before things escalated. Admittedly, perhaps I'm a little bit less emotional than I was, but essentially, this is how I was when you met me. I feel fine. I am fine." He sat back and watched as John fiddled with his fork, not making eye contact. "You said I was meant to take these for a week before deciding. It's only my first dose. My body will adjust." He took a bite of his own food. "Look at me, John. Really look. I'm sane again for the first time since the cocaine. Yes, they're still in there. But they're quiet. Nothing more than background. I'm thinking rationally. I'm thinking clearly. This is working."

John excused himself, leaving Sherlock partially confused. John's mother came over. "You upset my son." She slapped him. "You can stay to finish your food and then I want you out."

"But…" Now Sherlock was completely confused. "It's not like he's a delicate flower. He's fought in a war. He's killed. He's been shot. He's a soldier. He doesn't need coddling." John's mother walked off in a huff, red in the face. _What did I do?_ He ate another bite of spinach and chicken omelet, trying to puzzle out what made John so upset.

John had gone into the back room where his uncle had showed them last time. He sat down on the couch with a huff. His mother came in with a furious look upon her face.  
>"John, he is a total prick." She said plainly. "I never expected you to actually have a boyfriend, I'll be completely honest. I never expected you'd want to be with somebody who doesn't even care about you, either." John snarled but kept quiet. She went on: "He's gorgeous, don't get me wrong, but are you <em>happy?<em>"  
>John thought back through the past three months.<br>"Every relationship is hard, Mother. I love him. I mean it, I've never loved anybody before." She put her head on one side and nodded.

After John left, he hailed a cab back to Baker street. He didn't want to have an argument when he got back, but they needed to talk about it. He sighed, and opened the window to let in some air.

Sherlock closed the door about ten minutes after John arrived back. He was holding a take-out box of John's food. "Didn't want it to go to waste," he explained as he handed the food to John, who took it downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, reminding Sherlock they were going to be out for a week and it would probably spoil. Sherlock merely cocked an eyebrow in response.

By the time John got upstairs, Sherlock was sitting in his thinking pose in his chair, eyes shut. He didn't open them. "You said that you fell in love at first sight, the day we met in Bart's. I don't understand why you've reacted so badly to me being on this medication. All it's done has been to restore me to my mental state four years ago, not long before we met. If you loved me then, why do you have such a problem now?" His voice was flat, rational, unemotional. He wasn't upset, he was genuinely confused and trying to work it out.

"I did. But I didn't love you as much as I do now. I hadn't been through so much. I care far too much to have us go back to.. that." Sherlock frowned. "Listen, I know you won't understand, but when one is in love… They don't want to go back to before the relationship. You know what? It doesn't even matter. I'm going to tidy up my room."

John didn't. He punched the bag instead. Repeatedly, feeling his knuckles bruising fast. He was roaring with each blow, knowing that Sherlock would notice, but he didn't care. Sherlock didn't knock or anything, so John carried on, growing horse with each hit.

Sherlock came in after five minutes. Even in his drug-induced apathetic state, John's behaviour was upsetting. "John," he said, quietly. John didn't stop. "John!" He grabbed him by the shoulders. John forced him off, throwing a punch which Sherlock easily blocked, gripping his wrist just a tiny bit too hard. "Stop." Sherlock was staring John down, eyes locked as if in a battle of wills. "You'll hurt yourself. And we'll miss our flight." John was breathing hard, trying not to attack Sherlock for acting so calloused. "I know you don't like this. But you need to realize that for the next few days, this is what I'll be like. Until we have a definite result to give to Hussey but John said we're not going to see him anymore. Can we see Ella instead? I like her. She's nice I have to keep taking them." Yet again, the tone of his voice didn't change as the dominant personality did. "Interesting. I transitioned again. Who was it this time?"

"I think it was Liam." He spat. He pulled himself away from Sherlock and sat down on the bed. "You don't understand how much I care, do you?" He put his head in his hands. "I love you. You feel absolutely nothing for me. Nothing. I'm still here because of what I feel, and you don't know. You'll never know how hard it is to be paralyzed by feelings." Sherlock swallowed and sat next to him. John turned to look at him with pained eyes. "I can't help it."

"I'll never know what it's like to be paralysed by emotions?" Sherlock had a hint of frustration in his tone. "Please think about what you just said. Dewer's Hollow. The rooftop of Bart's. Three long years in painful isolation. The first time I realized I wanted to love you back. The time Moriarty had kidnapped you and I had no idea what was happening. Every single time I was raped in that warehouse. Realizing that I had a split personality and that he was a killer. Not knowing when I came out of my head what Avery had done—did he kill again? Knowing that the only chance I had to be rid of him could also destroy me. Seeing you covered in your own blood from the wounds that I inflicted—me, not Avery, and knowing how much I enjoyed it. Carrying you from that barn to the village, hoping I hadn't killed you. Damn it, John, I still have nightmares about that!" His voice had risen, both in volume and pitch. "Looking down at my own arm, riddled with needle-marks and realizing what I'd done to myself out of desperation, knowing the hell I was going to go through when someone had the courage to stop me. Watching you and Mycroft die. Being raped again. Knowing I'm going insane like my great-uncle. Every single time I hear a song from the '80s or have someone brush my bare skin with theirs, I literally can't move." He was angry now, boiling behind the drugged numbness. "Night before last. You were there. You saw me. So please don't insult me by saying I'll never be paralysed by emotion." He stood up and returned to the living room, but turned back. "No, I can't love. I'll admit to that. I've never heard of someone being paralysed by happiness, which, although fleeting, I have experienced. But fear is something I've been feeling daily for the past two and a half months. And if you think I can't be paralysed by it, try playing that song. I'm sure you remember the one. It's everywhere."

Sherlock sat in his chair and stared at the unlit fireplace, waiting for John to come to him for an apology. But it had to come soon, or they'd be on a flight to Paris and still upset with one another.

John took a hard swing at the punchbag before walking into the living room.  
>"I meant.. when you're like this." Sherlock shrugged and frowned, exasperated.<br>"I'm sorry." John's voice faltered as he sat down. "I know I'm an idiot, but you need to know how hard this is. To wake up every day and see that you feel nothing for me. You depend on me, like you would an adult when you're a child. Apart from that there's nothing, you don't kiss me, or even hug me out of choice anymore. Think about how hard it is to kick an addiction, Sherlock. It's a million times harder when it's a person to whom you are close."  
>Sherlock went back into his thinking pose with an intrigued look on his face. John stood up and put on his coat.<br>"Are you coming or what? We're going to be late for our flight at this rate."

Sherlock stood. "Yes. Obviously." He picked up his suitcases and made for the door; he'd called a cab before he'd gone to John's room. He took a deep breath as he stepped outside. "I'll get back to the hugging," he said softly. "It's been two weeks, but it's too soon. Longer for the kissing, of course, but it did save my life, so you never know." He flashed one of his fake smiles at John, trying to cheer him up. "Heathrow," he told the cabbie. "Perhaps we need to tell Hussey—please, John, explain to him why we can't see Hussey any more, or actually, just tell him that we won't be seeing him—I'd really like to see Ella if I get to pick—that I should be taking a partial dose. Dull my emotions but not numb them. But after this week. Being a doctor, you should know that you shouldn't alter the prescription dosage yourself."

They arrived and went through all their checkpoints with the usual efficiency. Eventually, they took their seats and went through the usual safety procedure, at which Sherlock mouthed along, and finally took off. Sherlock stared out the window, as he'd insisted on a window seat. "This time next week…" He didn't finish his thought.

"I know. Mycroft is going to be there today, so you will not be alone. I'm going to be there, obviously, helping you as much as I can." Sherlock nodded and looked at John, sadly. "We can see him as often as you like, until.. well you know. Then, because we're in Marseilles, we can go to the field, if you like." He nodded again and then looked out of the window, staying silent for the next few hours.

When they stepped off the plane, Sherlock took a deep breath and smiled. John took his hand with a grin. "Shall we?"

Sherlock nodded. "And mother." He walked to the baggage collection area and took all of his bags (fortunately, they all showed up). They checked into their hotel and managed to find out which hospital Sherlock's father was in before rushing off. "He may not make it until dark," Sherlock said, the deadness in his eyes returning. It was somehow emotionless and yet very emotional, defying any attempt of John's to even explain it to himself.

They kept John out of the room, as only family was allowed. Sherlock entered to see Mycroft sitting at their father's bedside, actually holding his hand, with their mother standing behind him. On his other side was a young woman, possibly as young as seventeen, dark-haired and light-eyed like Sherlock and Mycroft, and Sherlock figured she was somehow related. _His daughter? _He blinked, a strange sort of detachment filling him, as if this wasn't his family, wasn't his life.

"You even show up to my deathbed high," the eldest Holmes coughed.

"Father, don't," warned Mycroft.

"It's prescription," Sherlock said at the exact same instant. "For…" He realized that the young woman in the room didn't know about his mental health issues, and neither did his mother, who was sobbing. It seemed that Sherlock was the only emotionless one in the room. The young woman was crying softly, their father was visibly strained, and Sherlock could have sworn he heard Mycroft sniffle. Avery and Liam were in no danger of coming forward—he could feel Liam wanting to cry and Avery wanting to exact the last revenge he could. He stepped forward, beside Mycroft, and just sort of watched. "I've never—" He realized that what he had been about to say, _I've never seen a man die of disease. It's interesting to watch a slow death as opposed to the quick ones_, would only make things worse between himself and his family. "Never mind."

"I want you all to know how much I cared about—"

"Bullshit," said Sherlock, or rather Avery. Sherlock tilted his head and closed his eyes as the outburst ended and Avery retreated. The others were staring. "No. I didn't…I didn't mean that." Mycroft nodded sadly. "I'm…" He bit his lip.

"I cared about all of you, my children, in my own way," Mr. Holmes continued. "I wanted the best for you and from you. Two of you achieved it." He took a raspy breath. "And as for the other," he said, looking directly at Sherlock, "I forgive you. I clearly expected too much of you." Sherlock looked down. Even now, he was a disappointment to his father.

"Avery, don't say it like that," their mother whispered, putting her arm around Sherlock, causing him to involuntarily tense. "Be proud of Sherlock."

Mr. Holmes took a forced breath, a laboured and clearly largely unfelt apology passing his lips in Sherlock's direction. The young woman put her hand on his shoulder and whispered "Please don't leave, Father. You're all I have."

"I don't have a choice, Zap. Everyone dies."

"All hearts are broken," Sherlock muttered, earning him a glare from Mycroft, urging him not to take that train of thought any further. _Do not say 'caring is not an advantage', not here. Not now._ So observant were the two brothers, having grown up with each other, that sometimes they didn't need verbal communication to say what they were thinking.

"Not your heart, Sherlock. I don't know if you have one."

Before he could stop himself, Sherlock (on the verge of being Avery) snapped a reply, quickly, coolly, levelly. "A genetic condition. Must be something I've inherited from you."

"Sherlock Avery Holmes," chastised his mother, shocked. The whole family was staring at him as he stood completely unmoved by the situation.

"I…"

"I'm going to miss you, Father," said Mycroft, attempting to shift focus for the sake of diplomacy. "We'll all miss you. Even Sherlock, in his way." The elder Holmes's breaths were growing more laboured, and the tears were flowing in greater quantities, except for Sherlock who still could feel nothing, not even hate at the fact that his medicine kept him from feeling.

"I accept your apology," Sherlock said finally. "Everything else I have to say to you has already been said. Previously. I accept you for who you are, even if I cannot forgive the way you treated me. The way you're still treating me." Sherlock looked his father in the eyes, the eyes that were the same strange unidentifiable colour. "Goodbye," he whispered. His mother kissed her ex-husband gently, in a gesture not unlike the way Sherlock would kiss John. Mycroft was holding his father's left hand tightly with both of his own, silent tears on his face. The woman, Zap, was holding his other hand, crying more freely into it.

_She has no mother. She is alone,_ observed Sherlock. _Please make friends with her. She's sad and lonely. No, Liam. Perhaps you can, but I don't extend the hand of friendship._ Then the beeping tones spread apart, the elder Holmes's eyes stared at the ceiling, and he whispered his final breath: "Violins."

There was silence punctuated only by the steady tone of a flatline, and when the attending nurse turned off the machine, offering her condolences in broken English, only then did the dam burst and the sobbing begin. All Sherlock could do was stare. His father was dead. He didn't care. How much of that was the medication and how much was the truth? His mother insisted on a family hug, including Zap, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to participate and instead ended up the reluctant centre, breathing too quickly, and not from grief. Mycroft noticed and broke off early, not sobbing, but still crying audibly.

"I need to be alone," Sherlock said, turning to leave.

"Sherlock—" Mycroft had made a move to follow but decided better of it.

John had been in the waiting area when he received a text.

_DO NOT LET HIM OUT OF YOUR SIGHT FOR ANY REASON  
>MH<em>

It was unusual for Mycroft to text in all capitals, so it was clear just how serious the situation was. When John saw Sherlock, it was clear why. Aside from his posture, which was utterly deflated, and the medication-induced emptiness in his eyes, he looked perfectly fine. Which was the problem.

"You're not taking them anymore." John said as they walked outside the hospital. Sherlock didn't say anything. "Your own father has just died and you don't even care." He stopped and grabbed onto his shoulders, with difficulty due to height difference. "This is beyond the way you act with me, now. When I first met you, you would have cared. You should care. I know you can." Sherlock glared at him but said nothing. "Go back into that hospital. I know you don't want to. But you haven't seen your mother in years. Go and hug your brother. Hate me all you want, but go." John pointed into the hospital, like a parent would point a child to their room. Sherlock slowly walked back in, up the sloped corridor.

John sat outside when Sherlock went in. There was a young girl sitting outside, crying. John looked at her- dark hair, silver eyes, pale skin; she was a Holmes. She looked up with a half smile, obviously put on.  
>"Hello, are you Sherlock's friend?" She sniffed.<br>"Yes," John nodded.  
>"I'm Zap. Zapharia is my full name. I'm his half sister… He probably doesn't even want to meet me."<br>John swallowed and shook his head. "In time, he will. He's not very well right now. That's why everybody thinks he's high." Zap nodded. The door creaked open and Sherlock came out. He sat down on the plastic chair next to John and put his head on his shoulder, still not upset.

"Mycroft once told me that caring is not an advantage," Sherlock said softly. "That it only ever leads to heartbreak. My heart and mind are broken enough at present. I'll mourn in my own time and in my own way. He didn't so much as contact me for seventeen years. I only came out of courtesy." He was lying and John knew it. There was a small part of him that wanted redemption, wanted to know his father was in some way proud of him. "No, that's not completely true. But even at the end, he didn't respect me. He never said he loved me." Sherlock's forehead crinkled. "I don't know if he could," he practically whispered.

Their mother came out, Mycroft rubbing her shoulder as she cried. She came over to Sherlock and started rubbing his face, which made him freeze. "Oh, Sherlock," she said. "My baby." She hugged him.

"Mother, please don't—" His voice dropped to a whisper only his mother could hear as his mouth was right by her ear.

She looked shocked and pulled away suddenly, rubbing his shoulders instead of his bare skin. "Oh, God, Sherlock, I didn't know." She stared at him, eyes wide with horror. "Oh, God. Are you—are you fine?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to discuss it, but remembered what John had said. "Now is not the time." His voice was starting to strain and he cleared his throat. "This is John Watson," he said to Zap and his mother, deciding to leave out the _My sort-of-boyfriend—we're in an open relationship and it's complicated to begin with since I seem to not be able to love _bit.

"You haven't read your letter…" John remembered, almost praying that old Avery had said something good. Sherlock swallowed and nodded. Mrs Holmes patted Sherlock on the shoulder with a sad look in her eyes.  
>"Go and speak to your brother, Sherlock." Sherlock stood up and went back into the room; his coat billowing behind him.<p>

Mrs Holmes asked John about Sherlock's condition, ignoring the fact that Zap was sitting there. Zap didn't flinch or gasp, in fact, she didn't look surprised. She sat in the same thinking position as Sherlock, even though they'd never met.

When Sherlock and Mycroft returned, they were holding hands, like scared children. Mycroft let go to hug Zapharia, and he promised her that she would be fine. John felt very out of place until Sherlock grabbed onto him, eyes begging him to take him away. He shook his head; they needed to stay with the rest of the family, even if it was hard for Sherlock.

"It's wearing off," Sherlock muttered. "I can't think right." He pulled away. "It…it hurts." He swayed slightly and shifted. "I need a smoke," clearly Avery said. He shook his head as if to get water out of his ears. "Stop." Sherlock's left hand clenched. "I need to go with Mycroft," he said. "I'm sure you understand. You can still text." Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and steered him with them.

"I'll look after him, John. Don't worry." It seemed that as the medication slowly wore off, grief took its place, as it rightfully should. Even as Sherlock walked away, his shoulders and head drooped slightly and his feet began to drag. John was left all alone.

**Sherlock's blog:**

The medication is wearing off.

I don't feel right.

It might be grief, but that doesn't make sense. I hadn't had communication with my father in seventeen years, and that only via impersonal contact. I hadn't spoken to him in nineteen. Even with his dying breaths, he insulted me. So why does it hurt?

It's not the same pain as when I thought John and Mycroft were dead. That was sharp, like a sword impaling me. This is more like a needle in my chest. It's wrong. My medication is wearing off and I have the feeling it will be a very bad night unless I take another pill. John has them. I've gone with my family.

I don't care what John says. I have to keep taking them. Emotional numbness is what I need, plus Doctor Hussey apparently said I was to take them no matter what until the week is up so that we can properly evaluate the response. One dose is not enough to see any adverse effects.

Right now, I can feel control slipping. I don't like it. I'm…upset. And Avery and Liam are stirring.

John stayed in the little plastic seat, next to Mrs Holmes and Zap. They looked at him, both teary, but concerned.  
>"He will be fine, John." Mrs Holmes choked out. "My Sherlock, is strong, no matter how flawed he is." John nodded and stayed quiet. Mrs Holmes and Zap walked away, leaving him to decide what he was going to do for the rest of the day.<p>

_When you feel better, come to the field._

_-John x_

He slipped his phone away and left the hospital. He was going to wait for the train. Sherlock needed cheering up, and John thought the only was would be to take him to his favorite place.

"I…why does it hurt?" Sherlock sat with Mycroft in his hotel room.

"Because you cared, Sherlock."

"I didn't want to." His hands were starting to shake. He could feel the medication wearing off, could hear Liam more than Avery, but they were both growing louder. Quickly and shakily, he texted a reply to John:

_Yes.  
>SH<em>

"I'm…"

Mycroft sat down beside him and gently hugged him sideways. "I know, Sherlock." Sherlock stared ahead, fighting the urge to cry. Mycroft, it seemed, had already surrendered to it, as wet splashes fell on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock couldn't hold it in any longer, and Liam blended with him, co-conscious, and both grieving.

The female half of the Holmes family had stayed with John for a while, before John had left for the train. Sherlock's mother had told John about how Sherlock as a child had been normal, emotionally, but as he'd grown up, he'd grown colder. The way she relayed it, it sounded as though he'd started to lose his emotions at a very early age out of an attempt to impress his father, a way to bond with him. _ Maybe if I'm like him, he'll love me._ He'd never been the child Liam was. By the time he was seven, he'd already decided to close himself off, as if locking bits of him away. And all out of an attempt to prove himself to the father who seemed like he didn't care. "Avery never said he loved Sherlock. Or Mycroft, for that matter. Actually, I don't think he ever said it to anyone. But he was especially hard on Sherlock, and I never understood why." It was something John thought hard about as he waited for the train to the village.

John thought hard about difficult it must have been for a young child to be so closed off. His own childhood had been difficult, but he always had acceptance from Harry and his mother. His own fathers death would not effect him, that is if he wasn't dead already. John sighed and thought about what he could say to Sherlock. Nothing would really matter while he was in this state.

The first day that John had saw Sherlock, he'd become instantly attached. He was smart, attractive, and above all brilliant. He didn't understand why his father did not accept him for who he was. _Everyone has flaws._ John stared out of the window of the train, his mind wandering.

It took two hours for the emotional fit to pass to any level that Sherlock felt he could be in public again. Liam was still sharing dominance, still sniffling, still pleading with Mycroft not to be let alone, his childlike thoughts still spinning through Sherlock's mind as Avery's had done the other night (but it wasn't causing nearly as much distress). He was tired, barely able to keep his eyes open, but he insisted on following John to the field.

Mycroft took out his phone and called John. "Meet us at the station. We're coming."

Sherlock was nearly silent on the train ride, only whispering to himself (or rather, Liam) once or twice. Every time he did, Mycroft grabbed his brother's hand to ground him, and it seemed to work, keeping Sherlock from drifting away. The train came to an eventual halt, and the brothers departed. John was there in the station, and it seemed as though everyone recognized Sherlock. They were giving him a wide berth, no doubt remembering the circumstances under which he had been forced to leave France last time (he'd technically still been under legal rules not to be allowed back into France, but Mycroft had traded favours for an exception given the circumstances).

Sherlock looked empty as he walked slowly to John. Not the drug-induced emptiness of earlier, but the _I don't know what to do now_ emptiness of someone feeling a grief they never expected.

John hugged him, tightly. Like when he realized he wasn't dead. He wanted him to know that they could talk about anything, even if he didn't want to. Sherlock sniffled and hugged John back. Mycroft said he was going to visit Claire whilst they sat in the field. John pulled Sherlock towards the field, not saying anything. He didn't really need to. Sherlock flopped onto the grass, trying to calm himself down, running his hands through the shrubbery, breathing in deeply.  
>He slipped his hand into John's, still not speaking.<br>John decided to break the silence. "I will accept you, no matter who you are or what you do." It was a quiet statement, but he knew it was a big one.

"Or, no doubt, what I may become," Sherlock whispered in reply, setting his head on John's chest and softly crying himself to sleep. John gently stroked Sherlock's head, and he, too, fell asleep.

"What did he say?" Sherlock's voice woke John up. He was still laying on top of him, listening to John's heartbeat, but he seemed only semiconscious as the first rays of sunlight warmed them. "He said no he didn't say that, don't be stupid." Sherlock's phone was in his open hand, and it was open to a text message.

_Aww, so sorry to hear about your father. Don't you think he progressed a bit more quickly than expected for someone in his condition?  
>x<em>

John took the phone from him and cleared the message, but the instant he did, the previous screen began playing an email attachment. Sherlock had been Rickrolled. John swore and shut it quickly, and registered the timestamp on the text. Sherlock had gotten it three hours ago.

"He should have said what he couldn't have meant. But that would be a lie. Lying is bad. Shut up, we've lied hundreds of times. But that was different, that was for our job. It was still bad. It was still necessary." Aside from his speech, Sherlock was completely motionless. "Funeral? Yesno. Why?"

John tried to shake him fully awake, but nothing worked. He replied to the text.

_When I find you, I will rip your spine out through your throat._

Jim would assume it was Avery, but John didn't really care. He wanted him dead just as much, and it was getting rather hard to control his hatred for the man. He called Mycroft to come and help him get Sherlock home.

Mycroft strolled over and picked Sherlock up, asking him to be quiet until they got him to a hotel. He ordered a car to get them back, rather than the train. Mycroft squeezed John's hand when they got in because he saw him crying. This gesture shook him, because Mycroft never showed affection. Not to John, anyway.

They arrived at the hotel after a long drive, and ordered a double room, with no balcony. Mycroft put Sherlock in the bed and left, begging John to stay with him.

Half an hour later, and Sherlock was still incessantly muttering, the three voices interrupting one another but conversing. John's phone lit up with a text from Mycroft.

_I apologize for the show of emotion. My family is slowly slipping away. It's all I've ever had.  
>Mycroft<em>

"Medicine," Sherlock said, clearly and precisely, the one word rising above all the other muttered ones. His voice quickly dropped back into his rambling, facial expressions wild, eyes swirling with confusion, fear, and grief. His words slowed, though, and soon he drifted off, exhausted and twitching.

But he wasn't out for long, fifteen minutes at most. His eyes slowly opened, and he rubbed them. "They're so loud," he said in Liam's childlike tone. "Why are they so loud? I can hear them thinking."

"I don't know, love. Are you hungry?" John gestured to the room service he'd called up. Liam stumbled over and ate a bit of everything sweet. When he'd finished, he sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "You're sick, great." John mumbled, getting him a tissue. Liam looked at John, scared, his eyes wide and teary. "You're going to be fine. You always are, aren't you?" John tried to smile, even though he felt tired and miserable. Liam pulled him on the bed with him and snuggled into him, coughing every so often.

"I'm not always fine," Liam whispered. "I'm not fine now." He grabbed John, crying. "Father's dead and I hate that Sherlock didn't feel it. It's because of the medicine, but he needs to. And the video on the phone scares me. It's just a song and it shouldn't, but I'm really really scared of that song because I—" He coughed. "I have bad memories. And I've never been able to see Avery and Sherlock outside me before but Avery is over there in the chair and Sherlock is on the bed, watching us. They're talking to each other about…" Liam paused, listening. "About Father and M—the Spider Monster. Sherlock thinks the Spider Monster had something to do with the fact that Father said he had six months but died sooner." His fingers tightened around John's shirt. "But I feel them thinking, too. I'm scared and sad. I'm not okay."

His forehead was warm, but not feverish. He stayed in bed where he drifted off again every so often before waking up just before noon. "John, I want to go and meet that girl. Zap. I want to make friends with her."

"Tomorrow. Right now she needs time to grieve. She's lost her dad, too." Liam nodded. "She want's to move to London, you know. Maybe… Maybe she could stay with us? It might do you all some good to have a family member with you." Liam whimpered and pulled the covers over his head.

John texted Mycroft back.

_I understand. You do know it's not wrong to show your emotions, right?  
>-John.<em>

He sighed and put his phone on the desk. "It's going to be okay, Liam." John was searching under the covers for him. He heard a giggle, a sinister one. It was obviously not Liam.  
>"Hello, Avery." Avery licked his lips and tried to grab onto John. "No." John pulled away from him. "I understand the whole grief process and how it makes some people want to shag everything, but now is not the time. Not today."<p>

"Yeah, but I haven't had any in weeks. Not really. That dream was great, and I said it would help, but it's not the same." Avery laughed. "Besides, it wouldn't be a comfort the poor man shag, it would be a victory shag." He sat up. "That plague's finally out of my life. I'm not grieving." He coughed, quite enthusiastically. "Damn it." He swung his head toward the window. "What the hell are you looking at?"

John's phone lit up again.

_It makes it easier.  
>Mycroft<em>

"Who was that?" Avery snatched the phone from John and read the message before putting the phone back on top of the bedside table, making sure to lean as close to John as possible, along him. "You're going to make me go to the funeral, aren't you?"

"Yes. Sherlock needs to be with his family." Avery snarled and nipped at Johns neck. "Stop it." John tried to pull away from him, but Avery moved on top of him. "For gods sake, Avery, get off." He didn't, of course. Instead he growled in John's ear about he was going to make him pay because of the funeral.  
>"Seriously, pack it in now." John was getting rather agitated. "I thought you couldn't have sex without bad memories anyway?"<p>

"Need to replace the bad memories with good ones," Avery whispered seductively. He continued to try to remove John's pants for a few minutes before sitting back up again. "Alright, fine, it seems I'm in the minority here. Just shut up already, all of you." He paused, staring at someone John couldn't see—either Sherlock or Liam, presumably. "No—unlike the two of you, I—quit interrupting! I don't have to justify—no, you know that's not it—I'm not gonna—for God's sakes. Just shut the hell up, both of you! It's my life, too!" He threw his hands up in frustration. "I said to shut up. That means you, too." He was pointing at the window, and somewhat down—Liam. "Don't you touch me," he snarled towards the foot of the bed before shuddering, moaning "Get off." He flung his arms as if to drive off unseen assailants, but drove himself into a coughing fit, gasping. "I'm fine," he said to John, forcing steady breaths. "No, I won't. I haven't gotten to be in charge properly for a few days and I'm dying of boredom in there."

"What on earth is going on?" John buttoned his pants back up with a sigh. Sherlock/Liam, whoever it was, stood up and walked over to the bathroom, saying he was getting a shower.  
>"Right." John decided it was best for him to tidy around the room. He put all the dirty washing in the laundry basket, called for the room service to be taken away, and made the bed. He put a film on and sat on the bed, not quite sure what was going on.<p>

"No!" Avery was trying not to transition—he wanted to be in charge, he wanted to do what he wanted, regardless of how anyone else might feel. The only thing he managed to do was to make a blur of things as he repeatedly fumbled the soap, Liam and Sherlock taking over momentarily. "I won't—" He thumped the wall of the bathtub/shower, shouting loudly. He even slipped once or twice, losing his footing in the soap-lubricated ceramic bathtub, but managed to catch himself on the railing before he injured himself. "I'm in control! Not you! You'll hurt someone, Avery, you might hurt John, you might hurt us. And I'm meant to spend my life locked inside our head? No!" John could make out all of Avery's words, until they were interrupted by the quieter tones of Liam or Sherlock. But of course, there was no way for anyone to control the changes, and an hour later and only half-rinsed, Sherlock burst out, demanding his medicine.

"I don't think you should take it while we're here. Your father has just died and you're not even bothered." Sherlock growled and snatched the pills from John's hand. "And you say _Avery_ is going to hurt me?" John spat, putting his hand over his mouth right after he spoke. Sherlock took one of his pills and sat in front of the TV ignoring John.  
>"I'm sorry." John mumbled, but he ignored him completely.<p>

It was five minutes before Sherlock said anything. "I have to make them stop, John. The voices, the hallucinations, the strong emotions." Sherlock coughed. "I'm not psychologically equipped to handle any of it. It's no different than Mycroft's drinking." And it was true, in his mind. He'd often seen Mycroft take to drink under heavy stress—moderately, but enough to numb him. This was essentially the same thing. Sherlock swallowed and watched the television in silence until he registered that the medicine took hold. "This medication is the only thing barring cocaine that does it. It's still not quite as effective as I do change, but it's the best alternative so far." He turned around to see that John was under the covers and sat beside him, knowing that John was probably crying silently, facing away. "I'm not the machine you once called me, you know. I do feel my father's death. Avery's happy about it. Liam's so incredibly distraught, probably the normal reaction. You have to understand, John. I hadn't seen him in nineteen years, hadn't so much as had a letter from him in seventeen, and suddenly he shows up and dies. Deathbed apologies…they don't mean anything. You don't have to live with the repercussions of them. I do feel bad that he's dead. I will probably come to grieve in my own way, eventually. I won't miss him." His voice was flat, emotionless. "I find emotions more disturbing than anything else, especially the uncontrollable ones. Fear, anguish, despair. Even if you were to smash all my scientific equipment, it wouldn't cause me as much distress as what I'm going through would. So I need this, John. I need this neutrality, this blandness of mind. I hope you can understand that." He rose. "I have to finish rinsing off. I won't be long. Then, if you feel like it, lunch."

John peeked out when the water in the shower started running. He could hear Sherlock muttering to himself. He padded into the bathroom and took his clothes off, climbing in the shower with him. Sherlock turned around and looked at him with sad eyes, putting his hand on his chest, over the M. "Don't worry about it." John ushered, looking down at it himself. It was purple now, probably healing. It didn't hurt, though. It was going to be a scar forever, obviously, and it really bothered John. Having the mark of a man who raped and beat him repeatedly on him for the rest of his life made him feel sick. Sherlock sighed and stroked the scars by his neck, looking guilty.

"Sometimes I think I'm worse for you than he is." Sherlock sighed. "At least he knew when to stop. I _am _going to kill him, I promise." He tilted his head. "The trouble with this medication is that you're not going to be able to tell which of us is speaking," he said calmly, Sherlock again. He turned back to the water, rinsing his hair. John put his hand on Sherlock's waist cautiously. "Don't," Sherlock ordered and John quickly drew back. "Clothed, I'm okay. But not here." He didn't say anything else until he was drying himself off.

"Honestly, I'm amazed at your own psychological healing. Touch doesn't seem to be a problem for you." Sherlock pulled on his clothing, the teal shirt he last wore here in France once again being buttoned. He looked at John closely. "You've not taken your medication today." It wasn't a question. "Take it. Then we'll go out to eat. A date, if you like."

John turned round with a smirk. "A… date? I remember you saying that they weren't your area." Sherlock grimaced and sat on the bed. "But I'm not complaining. Thank you." He stood up and kissed him on the top of the head. "Your sister wants to meet up with us and Mycroft for dinner tomorrow. Liam wanted to get to know her…" Sherlock simply sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Do you want to go? If you don't, I'll understand."

"My sister…" Sherlock frowned. "Not a phrase I'm used to hearing, or indeed thinking," he admitted. "I'll see her. I haven't really anything else to do." He wasn't bitter, he just didn't like any sort of socialization for the most part, and a dinner out with a family member not yet born when he'd last spoken to either of his parents wasn't exactly his idea of fun. "Besides, Liam will be cross if I don't."

He sat on the bed in his thinking position while John got ready for lunch. As they left the hotel room, Sherlock having already made reservations at a small restaurant, he was silent. They entered the lift and only there did he speak. "You know, John, if you think it matters, if you think I'll be okay, I'll skip the medication on the day of my father's funeral."

"I'm not sure if that's the best idea. If you stop now, you won't be as dependant on them." Sherlock pulled his 'puppy' face, and John gave in. "Fine. But if you have to leave, we'll look bad. You should warn your family."

They left the hotel, and John let Sherlock pick where they went, seeing as it was his idea. "Anywhere at all. You know this place better than me. This day is yours."

"You seem to think it's important that I show genuine emotion at his funeral. I'll leave it up to you on the morning." Sherlock was leading them toward the north. "I've already made reservations," he said. "Admittedly, it's just a small place, but I've heard good things about it."

They eventually got there, and it was a tiny little place, barely larger than Louis's bistro. They took their seats. "Order whatever you like. I'm having quiche. And soupe à l'oignon. And ice cream." He'd blinked hard between each set of food, but his voice never changed. "Apparently we're hungry," he mumbled. "Curious how they tend to stay largely in the background on this medication, and only speak when they have an opinion, leaving me dominant." He looked puzzled, but not upset. "It really does feel good, John. Something akin to a muscle relaxant for the mind."

John fiddled round with the salt and pepper whilst they waited for their meals. He was also having onion soup. A question had been nagging at the back of his mind since he'd seen how unemotional Sherlock was in the hospital. "I need to ask, and please don't be offended, because it is merely a question… Would it hurt you if I died? You don't seem to be feeling anything." Sherlock looked at the table with a blank expression, giving John the answer he needed. "Okay."

"Please don't ask questions like that." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper. "When I thought you were dead, Avery…did what he thought was necessary. And I didn't object to it for an instant until I realized you were alive." The waiter arrived with their soup, saying something in French to Sherlock, who nodded. Sherlock stirred his soup darkly. "I don't understand. You want me to be myself again yet you object to what is necessary to do so." He was staring John in the face, eyes with that medicated dead look, but intensely seeking for something in John's face. "What would, in your mind, be a suitable state?"

"Emotionally stable. You, feeling, but _stable._" He sipped his soup and looked over at him. "Not necessarily feeling for me, as I know that's near impossible but… Just _something._ Right now there is nothing." Sherlock blinked and took a swig from his glass. "I mean, I hate my father. I say I'd feel nothing if he died, but I know that I would. Even though he beat me and bullied me. I'd feel something. I just want you to. I know it's not in your nature, but I didn't think…" Sherlock sighed and tapped his spoon on the table. "I'm sorry. I'll shut up now."

"It's the closest we've gotten that doesn't involve me relying on illegal substances," Sherlock pointed out. The quiche was delivered at that instant, and Sherlock thanked the waiter before picking up his fork and taking a bite. "Mm, the quiche is excellent." He offered a bite to John, who accepted, and as a gesture, he insisted on feeding it to John. John seemed a little awkward with it, but took it anyway. "I'm certain my brother is going to offer to show Zap my baby photos," Sherlock said, rather desperate for a topic of conversation that wasn't death-related and personal at the same time. "It…could be awkward."

"Not at all. She needs to get to know you, imagine how lonely she is? You had Mycroft, she had nobody. By the way she explained life with her father, she's been caged up in a big house with nannies and maids since she was born. I think it'd be… _helpful_ if she came to stay with us, when you're feeling better, that is." Sherlock sighed and nodded, knowing that John wouldn't let it drop. "From the sounds of it, she's rather like you. Interested in science and serial killers. Maybe she could join you on cases." Sherlock stayed quiet, like he was being told off by a parent. "You can speak, you know." John poked, and he forced a smile out of him.

"I'd rather her not be in close proximity when I'm working. Technically, she's young enough to be my daughter." Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of more people around than was absolutely necessary. "If worse comes to worse, she can rent the basement. But I don't want her in 221B for a number of reasons, not least of which being that my vulnerabilities would be exposed to a practical stranger." He smiled, an obviously false smile. "Besides, you can attest to the fact that I don't even have enough capacity for responsibility to look after myself properly, even before this thing with Moriarty started, let alone an ex-soldier, a cat, and a teenager." It was a misguided attempt at humour, and seeing John's confused reaction, decided to backtrack. "I don't want to feel obligated to look after her." He took a few more bites, nearly finishing his slice. "And I'm sure my father wouldn't have wanted that, either." He popped the last bite into his mouth. "But I'll still want to be her friend," he said, obviously Liam's words, just before ordering ice cream. Sherlock (or Liam?) looked at John carefully. "Are you happy, John? Overall, I mean. With me."

"Do you think I'd be here if I wasn't? I've stuck it out with relationships before, but this is different. We have good days and they always make up for the bad." He sipped on his drink and then put his hands together under his chin with a smile. "Don't worry about anything. If I were unhappy, I'd tell you. The situation we're in now just takes the energy out of me, a bit. I'm learning to cope with it, and I want you to know that it's going to get better, as time goes on." Sherlock nodded and tucked into his ice cream, sucking on the spoon as John spoke to him. "Are you happy with me? As we are?"

"With you, yes. As we are, no." Sherlock noted that John seemed upset by this, so he took another bite of ice cream, preparing an explanation. "Ever since Moriarty did what he did, nothing is the same. Every time you kiss me or hold my hand or touch my face, let alone engage in anything more intimate, a little part of my mind flashes back to the warehouse. To Moran. To Moriarty. It's not to do with you, and I understand that. But I can't help but feel that sick fear. I can try to drown it, try to hide it, but it's always there. I go cold." He looked down and took another bite, trying to finish his ice cream before it melted. "I've told Mother the basics of what happened. I thought it was important so she'd understand why I wasn't returning physical affection." Sherlock swallowed, nervously, and it was plain that even on the medication, talking about his experiences caused him stress. He changed the subject. "Liam tells me we're not to be seeing Hussey any more." Sherlock smiled slightly, an ironic smile. "He wants to see Doctor Thompson. Avery feels the whole thing is a waste of time, of course. I still think I need to see someone. And we've not been to the couple's counsellor in three weeks, after Wednesday." He reached his hand out. "It's been two months since Avery, or very nearly. It feels like so much longer. Part of me is used to him already, in a way. It feels like he's always going to be there. And Liam, too. Will you be able to cope with my demons as well as your own?"

John took his hand over the table with a small smile. "Obviously." He used Sherlock's tone, just to annoy him, and then giggled. "Look, if I was going to leave, I would have. Have I?" Sherlock shook his head, and pulled the 'Obviously not' face.  
>"Then, don't worry about it. I'm here to stay, until you want me to piss off. And by the looks of it, we can't really cope without each other." Sherlock nodded and finished his drink.<p>

"So, where now?" Sherlock looked at him with an expression of disbelief. "Ah, of course." John smiled, and they headed off to the train station, again.

"Hopefully this time there won't be any unwanted interruptions, though, I must be frank, I don't think I'll be able to enjoy it. The medication," Sherlock added. "But hopefully it will relax me."

Once again, as they arrived in the little village, the locals avoided Sherlock, giving him nervous glances, fear and loathing mixed. In fact, when they went inside Louis's bistro to pay their respects, the curtains black in mourning, everyone but the barkeep moved to the far end of the room. "Problème?" Sherlock asked with his usual _I'm sorry, do you have a problem with something, because I'm not going to change, I'd just rather you state it_ tone. No one made eye contact.

Sherlock approached the barkeep, Louis's granddaughter, and offered his condolences, as well as an apology for not having been able to attend the funeral. (John could only guess at this, as Sherlock was speaking in French.) She seemed to accept his apology—John could tell Sherlock was acting because he genuinely couldn't feel as upset as his words were, but probably only John and Mycroft would have been able to notice. The other locals still didn't make eye contact with Sherlock and John, only waiting until Sherlock was looking in the other direction to stare. As Sherlock was offering his condolences, one of the older patrons took John aside and asked him "Il vous blesser. Pourquoi avez-vous encore rester avec lui? Vous êtes fou?" Sherlock overheard and turned towards him, a faint spark of anger in his eyes. "Come on, John. We're going to the field." He took John's hand and half-dragged him out of the little bistro.

John didn't bother to ask what had been said, as he could tell that it had highly irritated him. Instead he stayed quiet whilst Sherlock mumbled to himself, partly English, partly French. He fell down onto the grass with a heaving sigh and pulled John down next to him, still muttering to himself.  
>"Ignore them." John simply stated, waving his hands dismissively. "They're not important to us, really." Sherlock agreed, but it wasn't sincere. "Come on, it can't have been that bad. Ignore it. Enjoy yourself."<p>

Sherlock sighed angrily, almost a snort. "They remember. Of course they remember. Not every day someone plods naked into their tiny village bearing the unconscious and profusely bleeding also naked form of his boyfriend, blood streaming from the carrier's mouth. The people who weren't there, who didn't see, heard about it from those who did." He sat up and started coughing. "I'm not even meant to be here, in France, legally speaking. Mycroft pulled strings, but—oh, shut up, you bloody idiot." He lay back, staring at the sky. He moved his head as if flexing his throat, and started humming the French lullaby, though it was probably Liam's influence. Sherlock closed his eyes and just took in the sensory input of the gentle wind and the sunlight and the flowers. "He asked why you were staying with me when I'd hurt you so badly," Sherlock said after half an hour of silence, punctuated by the odd gentle cough now and again. "Though more literally, he said 'He hurt you. Why do you stay with him? Are you insane?' You can understand why that would upset me, here, where no doubt many of them remember me as I was at age ten. The incident was out of context." He opened his eyes and looked at John. "Not a day goes by that I don't hope to God you've repressed those memories. I know I never will."

"Sherlock, I've already forgiven you, why can't you forgive yourself? You can't help the way you react in certain situations, I know that." Sherlock closed his eyes and made a sarcastic remark.  
>"Look. They can think what they want to think, it doesn't bother me. Maybe I am insane, who knows? All I know, is that it's worth it, as corny as it may sound." He leaned over Sherlock, trying to get his attention. Sherlock opened his eyes again and looked him in the eye. "I love you, and that's it. Simple. It makes people do crazy things. It is the motive for most murders. It makes and breaks lives. If they want to call me insane, then let them."<p>

Sherlock was silent for thirty seconds or so. "Thank you. That…I think I needed to hear that." He put his hand to his own head, which had started to ache. "The reason I can't let go of it…it wasn't Avery. It was _me_. I've no idea why the fetish didn't surface before, but I wish it never had. Every night when I haven't had a sleeping pill and when I'm dominant, the last thing in my mind is always that moment. Hearing you beg me to stop and not being able to. R…" Even on this medication, Sherlock was growing distressed. "Remembering the—the portion of flesh in my mouth and seeing where it had come from, seeing the blood being thrust out of you through a vital vein. Watching you go pale and lose consciousness, and knowing it was my fault. Knowing you had mere minutes to live unless I got you to hospital. Realizing that the only reason I stopped was because Avery had mentally slapped me." A tear rolled down his eye. "Avery saved your life. I would have killed you." He coughed again, harder. "Your scream of pain and fear, John, every night since it happened, just on the threshold of sleep, invading my dreams, unless I was asleep with the help of the pills." He put his hand on John's scar, the wound he'd inflicted. "I don't understand how you forgive me, but I am grateful for it." He closed his eyes. "I just want none of this to have happened. I can't even delete it from my own mind."

"But it has happened. There's nothing you can do about it. I wish that it hadn't happened, too, but it did. I _wanted_ to have sex with you, I still do, because I love you. But I know, because of the risk, we need to work on us first, and more importantly, we need to work on you." Sherlock sighed but smiled, opening his eyes slightly. "After all of this crap we've had to wade through, after all the stuff we probably have to come; if I was given the choice to do it again and have you, I would… Now, stop worrying, and enjoy yourself, and don't think about the funeral until the day. I'm going to try and make you happy, even if you can't feel it properly."

"What an absurd statement," Sherlock said calmly. "I still don't understand. But I appreciate it anyway." He took John's hand and fell into a long period of silence once more, not quite asleep, but not quite awake either. It was almost a trance. The only thing to snap him out was his phone buzzing with a text.

_Where are you?  
>Mycroft<em>

Sherlock stretched as he took out his phone and replied.

_The field.  
>S<em>

He prepared to put his phone back into his pocket, but it buzzed again.

_Is John with you?  
>M<em>

_Obviously.  
>S<em>

_Goodf.  
>M<em>

_Why?  
>S<em>

_Are you drunk?  
>S<em>

There were no further replies. Sherlock sighed. "I think my brother's been drinking," he said, semi-sneering. "Grief response, I exp—" He stared at the horizon. There was a man who looked much like Moriarty, standing, watching them. "John," said Sherlock cautiously, trying to get John to sit up and look. "Do you see—" By the time Sherlock looked back up, the figure had vanished completely. "Never mind," he muttered.

John was dozing off on Sherlock, the heat of the day having an effect on him. He nuzzled into his neck, yawning. Every so often, Avery would move his neck against John's mouth, laughing seductively, but apart from that, it was mostly Sherlock in control.

Johns dreams were hazy and warm. Cheerful, for once. He was quietly listening to the sounds of the field around him, and the soft snores of Sherlock next to him. He was awoken by a splash of rain on the very tip of his nose.  
>"Sherlock, it's going to rain."<p>

"Mmmg?" Sherlock sat up, all memory of the apparition shoved to the pile of Things to Worry About Later. He blinked sleepily and sat up. "Didn't mean to fall asleep," he said, looking at the sky. "I think you're probably right. We can't go back to the village, and I'm certainly not going to the barn for shelter." He leaped to his feet, wide awake suddenly, as was usual for him, but that only instigated a coughing fit that had him bent double. As the rain started to pour harder, he waved his hand dismissively. "I'm fine," he said, taking deep breaths. He stood up straight and looked for the nearest shelter (other than the barn). The same little shack that they'd hidden from the rain last time was still intact, though in significant disrepair, and Sherlock ran to it. "Well. Here we are again." His lips twitched into something resembling Avery's sneer. "You and me. Huddling under a crumbling wooden shack. In the rain." He squeezed John's bum before suddenly putting his hands behind his back. "I think the medication is starting to wear off," he muttered, taking a step away.

John coughed, as if it would some how cover up the fact that he was blushing violently. Sherlock paced up and down, fighting Avery off as best he could. It wasn't working, however, as every so often, he would push himself against John. Sherlock would then come back, and push himself off, apologizing.  
>"Uhm, I think we should at least go back to the hotel. You're not due meds for another few hours, though." John looked at Sherlock, sadly. Even though he wasn't complaining this time about Avery, he really just wanted to spend the day alone with Sherlock.<p>

"Let's have another go when we get back to the hotel," Avery smiled wickedly. "I've got needs, you know." He coughed again, not as violently as the last time, but still vigorously. "Ngh. You're right. We should head back, even though it's still pouring." Sherlock swallowed and evaluated the area before rushing toward the village, where there would be a train waiting soon. "I'm getting a cold or something," he said, though it was obvious.

They arrived, sopping, on their train. Sherlock looked across the seats at John, watching him, as if asking for forgiveness or help or something that was hard to find words for. Then he looked sharply at the man in the seat in the aisle beside them. "No," he whispered and stood, rushing in front of John and grabbing the stranger by the shoulders. The look on his face turned from anger to confusion. "Je m'excuse auprès," he muttered before returning to his own seat, visibly shaken. "I thought…I thought for a moment, he was Moriarty." From the back, it was clear why—the man was an almost perfect match until you saw his face.

John shuddered and pulled a strange face. "Yes." He put his head in his hands, not wanting to look at the man. Something in the back of his mind tells him to check his surroundings. A blonde man, who looks like Moran was walking up the aisle. _It's a trap. _John pulled out his phone and sent Moriarty a text, just to see if he could hear the tone.

_I know you're here._

'Staying alive' started playing, but not from the look-a-likes. John grabbed onto Sherlock's wrist and pulled him into the toilet, small and compacted, but safe for the time being. "It's a trap, Sherlock."

"Obviously," he said, breathing starting to grow rapid and shallow. "But I'm not sure what he thinks he could do on public transport." He shook his head vigorously. "Oh, look, tight spaces," Avery said, clearly unaware of the previous few minutes, and pressed himself to John. "I like tight spaces. Especially if they have a John Watson in them." He started coughing again and his eyes rolled. "John, you won't let them get me, will you?" It was the first time in hours that Liam had said anything. "Please don't let them get me." His breathing was on the verge of a flat-out panic attack now, and he shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe calmly, returning to Sherlock.

There was a knock on the door which made both Sherlock and John jump. The voice of an older Englishman came through. "I don't know what you're doing in there, young men, but you're rather occupying a public toilet." Sherlock apologized and composed himself before leaving the tiny room.

"What do we do?" He'd calmed down a little, the elderly man serving as a much-needed distraction, but his hand shook as it took John's gently. Now that they had noticed it, it seemed that nearly a third of the train were either Moriarty or Moran look-alikes.

John was searching the train with his eyes, weighing up his escape options. There were doors, but the train was obviously moving. He'd have to calculate the time to fall, with the distance and where they were actually going to land, and it would take too much time.  
>"Follow me." John hissed, and started to climb <em>under<em> the seats. Luckily, there weren't many suitcases in the way, and they could crawl to the other end of the train, through doors and over metal bars that held the train together. He could hear Liam whimpering behind him quietly, and all he could do was get away, far away.  
>"Any ideas?" John gasped, as they reached the last third of the train.<p>

"A few," Avery growled before he changed back to Sherlock again. "Thank God for my medicine," he said shakily. "Is this what it's like to be a soldier?" Liam wondered aloud. "No. I can't do this right now. _Focus_." They stood up, and just at the very back of the empty car, were Moriarty and Moran.

"Nice to see you got my message," Moriarty crooned. Avery made to charge at him, bellowing but Moran and a stun-gun interfered. As Sherlock moaned to stand back up again, Moriarty smiled. "Nah-ah-ah, Doctor Watson. It's more than just the stun-gun that's pointed at you." The French train worker was holding a regular gun on them. "François won't use it unless I ask, but you now how trigger happy these ex-military types are."

"What do you want?"

"I'm just here to offer my condolences on your father's death, that's all." He stood up and walked toward Sherlock, coming within inches and whispering in his ear. "And because, honestly, I find you _unbelievably _sexy." Sherlock froze in place as Moriarty brushed up against him and licked his neck. "Especially when you're vulnerable." Sherlock literally could not move, pupils so thin they were almost invisible, beginning to break out in sweat, knowing that as long as the gun was trained on himself and John, there was nothing anyone could do. Moriarty pressed himself to Sherlock like Avery did to John when he wanted sex, a similar sinister smile playing on his lips, his hands moving down Sherlock's sides. "I've never had anyone I really wanted," Moriarty whispered. "There's only ever been one person for me." He grabbed Sherlock's crotch, making Sherlock start to go into shock, his breathing ceasing almost altogether, and John to step forward, regardless of the gun trained on him, earning himself a shock from Moran's stun-gun. The train's momentum suddenly changed, the only thing keeping things from going further. "Oops, that'll be the train slowing. This is our stop. See you later, boys," Moriarty finished with a kiss on Sherlock's nose. Moran opened the door and all three of the villains took a gentle roll out as the train halted. Sherlock was still frozen in terror, eyes staring vacantly at Moriarty's escape route, barely breathing at all, somehow still standing, as if his mind had just simply shut down, leaving his body where it was.

He heard the French train worker drop the gun. John didn't bother to think about what threats were put in place for him, and he kicked him to the floor. He then pulled Sherlock's whole body over his shoulder, carrying him like he was a victim from a fire, off the train. He waited until it reached the station they needed, and got off.

_Order a car to the train station, Moriarty got us whilst you were drinking._

Mycroft probably wouldn't answer. They waited about ten minutes before John walked through the city to the hotel with Sherlock on his shoulder. The staff at the front desk raised their eyebrows but didn't question anything.

They finally got to the room, and John put Sherlock on the bed. He was starting to move now, but he wasn't speaking. "Shh, it's going to be okay. I'm going to find him." Mycroft stumbled into the room, fixing his tie with a giggle.  
>"Well done." John snarled. Two security men walked in behind Mycroft and he introduced them.<br>"Good. Look after Sherlock. I have business to attend to." He pulled a box out of his suitcase, and left the room.

Seeing Sherlock in this state sobered Mycroft quickly. He didn't even bother thinking of what John might be doing—all his focus was on his brother. "I'm here, Sherlock." Sherlock turned his head toward Mycroft slowly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think…" He hiccuped and put his hand to his mouth, embarrassed. "I don't know where John has gone, and to be frank, I don't particularly care, so long as I don't have to clean up any more diplomatic incidents and so long as you are safe." He reached to grab Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock pulled away with a moan. Mycroft frowned and had the guards stand outside before gently singing the French lullaby. It worked somewhat, and Sherlock, or rather, Liam, was seeming to grow more and more aware of his surroundings. After an hour, he spoke weakly, voice still tinged with fear:

"Hello, Mycroft. Your breath stinks." Mycroft laughed gently and wiped away the tears that came so much more freely with the alcohol in his system. Liam coughed, his cold still getting worse. He shifted and looked around the room very slowly, very weakly. "Where's John?"

"I don't know, Liam."

Liam grew visibly agitated. "Nnnno. The Monsters. They're out there. You have to keep them from finding John, please, Mycroft!" He was starting to hyperventilate again, terrified for John's safety.

John returned to the train station. He felt like his left arm was missing whilst he was without Sherlock by his side, but he would have to cope. There was a map there, showing the stops that each train took, and which area each stop was in. John thought back- The stop that Moriarty had got off was four stops before their own. That area had a name that he couldn't pronounce, but it was no doubt where Moriarty was staying.

The train journey seemed unusually quick, but John thought nothing of it. He stepped off the train, feeling the nostalgia of the army washing over him. There were small benches on either side of the track, and the sun was blazing down. It was always going to be a lovely area; just because Moriarty was desperate, didn't mean he doesn't expect the best. He clicked open his box. Being in the army had many pros. He was allowed to have a gun on him, because he had a gun license. Having a gun license meant he was able to have any knives that were meant to be attached to the guns. He slid a Bayonet into his back pocket, and the British Army Browning L9A1 into his jacket.

_Don't worry. I'll be back soon. I love you._

_-John x_

John sighed and slid his phone into one of his other pockets and set off. Conveniently, there was a list of nearby hotels, motels and garages in the area. This would make it much much easier to find Moriarty.

Liam was shaking, his shared overactive mind imagining John in all sorts of dangerous situations, half of which got him killed. "Pllllllease, My. Find him. The Monsters are going to get him and—" He coughed very enthusiastically, eyes rolling, and had to sit upright, an act he had barely recovered physically enough to do. "If he gets hurt, I'm going to fucking kill someone." Avery was shaking, partly out of physical distress, partly out of anger.

"Calm down," ordered Mycroft.

"No," replied Avery. "This is your fault. You didn't think he'd find us in France. You didn't think he'd come after us to make our lives hell. You didn't think he'd make it his personal mission to torment me. You didn't think that just maybe you ought to have guards posted. You didn't think, Mycroft. You. Didn't. Think." There was murderous fire in his eyes, and Mycroft was spared having to respond to him by the fact that he started coughing again, falling back into bed, Liam once more. "Please may I have my phone?" Mycroft handed it to him, and Liam read the message from John before sending his own.

_Please come back, John. Please hurry. I'm scared._

He sent the message and rolled onto his side, clutching his phone, waiting for a response. All Mycroft could do was watch sadly.

John decided to try the five star hotels. Nobody would expect any less of Jim. He no doubt had the money to do what he pleased.

John tried the Hilton, first. He didn't bother asking the person on the front desk if there was a Jim Moriarty staying. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't stay under that name. However, he _would_ stay under the name Richard Brook. He kindly asked at the desk, telling them that he was his assistant, Sebastian Moran. He was always being told how they looked alike, so he used it to his advantage. They informed him that they did receive a reservation, but it was never taken up.

He tried five other hotels before texting Sherlock's phone.

_It needs to be done, love. Avery understands, maybe he'll help you to._

_-John x_

He tried another hotel, one that was large and gold. Tacky. Of course, he knew there would be security, so he'd have to prepare for it in some way.

Mycroft wasn't prepared for Liam's reaction to John's text. Liam threw his phone and screamed, putting his hands to his head, curling into a ball, going back into shock. "No," he muttered and kept repeating, and when Mycroft reached out to comfort him, Liam withdrew even further.

Mycroft reached down and took Sherlock's phone, reading the text, and instantly sent one of his own.

_Doctor Watson, what are you doing?  
>Mycroft<em>

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Sher—Liam." Mycroft sent another text, this time to his staff in the area, telling them to find John because there was a risk he might be homicidal. Mycroft wasn't inclined to texting, but he knew that if he said anything aloud, he might send Liam into further panic, which was something he didn't want.

"Where's John?" came Sherlock's more steady tones.

"I don't know," replied Mycroft.

"Damn it." Sherlock knew. "Stop him. No, don't stop him, this needs to happen, please, Mycroft, don't let him do it." The sudden transitioning was making Mycroft feel ill, knowing how distressed Sherlock was. Liam seemed most likely to be dominant, and indeed he was currently in front, wrapped into the foetal position, coughing and sniffling and crying.

John wasn't sure what Sebastian Moran looked like until he strolled out of the lift. Luckily, John was hidden. He was quite tall, taller than John at least, his hair was the same as John's, sandy blonde with streaks of brown and grey through it. He was muscular, and wearing a tank top. John would never get away with pretending to be him. The sudden appearance had shocked John, and sent him falling back into a room full of cleaning supplies. He stayed quiet and searched the room. There was another door, leading to lockers. _Perfect._ John kicked one open and changed into the uniform. There was an ID attached, with no photograph. All he had to do was find a way in to Jim's room, without being recognized.

_Avery, any ideas on not being recognized? I've got a plan._

_-John x_

He sat in a space behind the lockers until Avery wanted to text back.

Mycroft handed Liam Sherlock's phone without even reading the message—he had his own to send.

_I must insist, Doctor Watson, what are you doing?  
>Mycroft<em>

Liam burst into more enthusiastic tears upon reading John's message, but Avery's hands took over.

_I never bothered with that. Not like they'll live to tell about it. God, I love you.  
>x<em>

_PS You can have Moran, but I want Moriarty for myself._

_PPS You don't have enough time to grow a beard, so I recommend completely changing your posture and the way you hold your jaw. You went into this ill-prepared, John. Get Moran on his own and dispose of him privately. No one else need know it was you. Besides, you wouldn't fool Moriarty for an instant._

"Mycroft, you have to stop him," said Sherlock, sweating exuberantly, voice shaky. "He's gone after them. Someone is going to die."

John sighed and text Avery back.

_If I get my hands on him, he's going to die. Maybe. Don't be a dick about this, you know how serious this is. Moran's gone out, not sure where, but he's left whatever room unguarded on the inside, now there's just outside security to deal with._

_I love you too._

_-John._

His phone chimed, so he set it on silent. He didn't want to draw more attention to himself. He noticed that Mycroft had text him.

_And they say you're the smarter brother? Work it out, Mycroft. You know this needs to be sorted, and since you won't, I have to._

_-John_

John slouched, so his posture was completely different. His posture was always the distinguishing thing about him, because of his soldier-stance. He put his jaw out, and opened his eyes wide. The only thing he had to do, was find out which room.

When it got to about 8pm, the staff at the front desk started clocking off. He kept his eyes out for Moran, who still hadn't returned. When the front desk was empty, only for a few minutes, John took the information book. Richard Brook was staying in a double room. It mentioned nothing about the other person, but John guessed it was Moran, who was also under another name for safety. He swallowed. _What sort of sick relationship are they in? _He put the thought to the back of his mind and got the room number. It was penthouse 7 at the top of the building. The very top. He also looked over the cleaning schedule: but everything was in french. _Fuck._ He had to guess- he'd have to go in about nine, and mumble something incoherent.

Though he was used to this sort of thing from the army, it didn't stop his heart from beating way faster than normal. He strolled up to the room and was stopped by the guard, who was English. He mumbled something in a thick french accent about cleaning, and he was allowed in. Moriarty wasn't in the first room he walked into, so he sent a quick text.

_I'm in. No security apart from the ones outside. He's alone in here._

_-John._

He heard singing, but it was… Happy. Strange. John slowly padded up to the next room- the dining room. He poked his head round the door, and Jim was lying on the table. John frowned. _God, he's so weird._ Jim had no electrical equipment that John could see, so maybe it was time to go in.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," Moriarty said, without even opening his eyes. "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Back in the lion's den—I didn't think you were that stupid." He laughed and sat up. "You do realize what you've done. You've come here to kill me, so predictable, though I was hoping it'd be Avery. Oh, well." John was breathing hard, pointing the gun straight at Moriarty, not quite sure why he hadn't yet pulled the trigger. "Go on. Shoot me. I'm unarmed. We're in a foreign country, where no one will recognize you." He was grinning. "If you get lucky, there won't be anyone around to hear the gunshot."

Something in his voice bothered John. He was too calm. Too alright with this. _What's wrong with you, _screamed the voice in John's head. _ Shoot him now. You'll be rid of him forever._

He hesitated for just one instant too long, and Moran entered. John swivelled to see who it was, and shot him. _Well done_, the Moriarty in John's mind said. _ You got one of them._ By the time the police arrived, he needed to be long gone.

"Go on. They won't trace it back to you. This is only fair, John." Moriarty was smirking. John pulled the trigger, shooting him dead on in the head. He slowly slid down onto the table. John searched for the bullets- something he'd learned from Sherlock. He picked them up, and left. Nobody would know he was here.

He went out the window. There was a swing stage outside, unattended. He moved it down, feeling sick. It had been so long since he had killed, and he forgot about the effects.

_Done._

_I think._

_I feel sick._

_-John_

John threw up, and by the time he'd reached the ground, sirens were going off. He had to leave.

Luckily, he'd worn gloves. No fingerprints would be found. All he had to do was return home and pretend that it had never happened. So why did it seem so difficult?

_Send a car, please. I won't make it home._

_-John_

He felt dizzy as he waited for Mycroft to send a car.

"He's on his way back, Sherlock." Mycroft reluctantly sent the car around to John, after managing to get a half-formed answer out of him as to where he actually was. Sherlock didn't move, frozen with Liam's terror. "He's coming." Sherlock/Liam/Avery stayed curled in his ball, a whispered "good" floating up from the blankets. Mycroft sighed, growing drowsy from the alcohol and the stress, and fell asleep until he got word that John had returned.

The instant John came into the room, Liam stared at him, tears welling up. He knew what John had done. "I hate you," Liam said. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! You're a Monster!" His voice had risen to hysterical screams now. "Only Monsters kill, only Monsters hurt people like that, just go away! I hate you!" He ran, wobbly, to the bathroom and slammed the door, and Mycroft and John could hear him sobbing, sometimes speaking to himself. "Why would he do that? I thought he loved us. He did, he just wanted to protect us. But he killed, I know he killed, I know the look, he did like Avery—" He coughed again, the most violent coughing fit yet. "Why would he betray me?"

"Then you've loved a monster from the start because I have killed people _before_. I have killed serial killers _in front_ of Sherlock, and now, I'm wrong? Fuck you." John pushed Mycroft off the bed and climbed in, covering himself with the covers and crying, loudly.

He could hear bustling around him, like Mycroft humming and receiving texts, and Sherloock/Liam crying. He didn't move. It was almost as if he couldn't.

John's phone lit up some time later and he struggled to read the messages.

_It was the premeditative aspect that's disturbing.  
>S<em>

_I'm proud of you, John, even if you did take my kill and thus my purpose for existing.  
>Avery xxx<em>

Liam was in the bathtub, curled as tightly as possible, sobbing until he could no longer make any sound whatsoever and he went numb. His whole world had crumbled, with the lone exception of Mycroft, who, at present, was locked out of the bathroom.

"John," said Mycroft after Liam could no longer be heard. "Do you want me to call anyone?"

"No. You can go. I'll deal with this." Mycroft nodded and left.

"Liam," John croaked, his voice hoarse from crying. "Please open the door so I can explain this." He heard him slowly creep over to unlock the door.  
>"I did this so the monsters would never hurt you again. So they would never ever come near us again. Please don't think I am one of them. I would never hurt you, ever." Liam dropped to his knees and looked straight at John. "The monsters can't hurt us now, they've gone away. And if you think I'm one, I'll go away too."<p>

"Monsters hurt because it's fun or because they think there's no other way." Liam rubbed his nose with his arm. "I hate you right now, I really do, but I think I love you more." He was still cross. "But don't touch me." His voice, too, was hoarse, and he didn't meet John's eyes. He shuffled over to the bed and sat on the end of it, turning on the television to the local children's network, which he watched in silence with his head tilted slightly to the left as if thinking intently about the cartoon people on the screen. "I'm sorry for calling you a monster, John," he eventually said after an hour and a half. "But promise you won't do that ever again or even think about it. It was like Avery was inside you." He kept his posture carefully guarded, shying away from John's offered hug and still refusing to look him in the eyes.

"I did a bad thing, I know. I did it for you, for us. So that the monsters could never hurt us again, do you understand? It wasn't fun, and it _was_ desperation. I would never hurt you, no matter what the circumstances were. I love you. They can't hurt you or give you nightmares anymore." Liam finally looked him in the eyes. "Please, you and Sherlock are angry, I know. I know that Sherlock probably wants me to rot in a cell. But you have to understand why I did what I did." A tear slid down his cheek and his wiped it away, before putting his hands on Liam's.

Liam drew his hands back. "Please, no touching." He stared at John, eyes vacant for an instant, before speaking as Sherlock. "I don't _want _you to go to prison. I take it you've disposed of the gun?" He sighed wearily. "Look, I…I know you snapped. I know you lost control. We've both been on a knife's edge this whole year and something like this was bound to happen eventually. I won't turn you in. After all, you've put up with Avery's killings, so it's only fair if I put up with yours." He stared at John. "Don't try to justify your actions. It only makes it worse for me to deal with. Only common criminals hide behind justification, and you are anything but common." He turned off the television and went into the bathroom again for one of his sleeping pills. "Goodnight," he said as he swallowed it, and his body language made it quite clear that he didn't want to share a bed tonight.

John went for a walk. It was obvious that Sherlock was close to closing his experiment, and that he was no longer needed. Not tonight at least. He changed his clothes and left. It must have been about 11pm, because it was dark. He decided to go and sit by the canal. It was quiet, so quiet that he felt like it was going to swallow him up. The only thing that disturbed his thought was a quiet cough from a bench a few yards away. Zapharia was sitting there, with a book and a cigarette, beckoning him.

"Evening." She smiled. "What's wrong, John?" She frowned slightly, and took a drag of her cigarette. John wanted to explain everything to her, though he knew her so little, but of course he couldn't.  
>"Nothing. Just troubles with your brother, that's all."<br>She smiled and blew out smoke. "You two, you're together." It wasn't a question. "Or at least, you're in love with him. Either way, that is part of your problem." She nodded and turned to him. "Love never made any sense to me, though I have had relationships. Experiments. They never made me feel anything, so I ended them." John closed his eyes and sighed.  
>Zapharia saw, and continued. "My brother, is he like me? Can he not feel for people? Even for you?"<br>John nodded. "Not even for me."  
>She sighed and pulled out her cigarette box, offering him one. He took one, even though Sherlock had been angry when he did.<br>"Listen, John. Us Holmes', though we don't know each other, we are the same. It is one rule for when it suits him, but otherwise it is wrong. In every circumstance. He, like me, needs to feel like he is right. Come on, let's go for a drink. It appears we are both in a terrible mood, and you look like you have no plan to go back to your hotel soon."

By the time they'd arrived at the bar, Sherlock was fast asleep, and he was dreaming that he was in a cloud. It didn't make much sense, scientifically speaking, but he was floating peacefully, cool, exploring the wind and the tiny droplets of water. He could zoom into them and examine their molecules, or zoom out and see the whole hydrosphere of the planet. The same was true of the air around him. A simple whim could let him view the constituent portions of the London fog, the haze over Tokyo, or the fresh clean air of the Siberian tundras. Just as easily, he could see how oxygen mixed in the blood, how air and water combined to make the clouds he was in, and just how fragile life on planet Earth could be. It was the most peaceful dream he'd had since he'd dreamed of the field, before their first trip to France, before his failed operation. It was good.

John received a call from Mycroft. "Doctor Watson, I do wish you would avoid these unplanned deviations from routine. It makes it much harder to protect you. Either of you. Nothing has happened yet, but I urge you to make…flight plans."

John sighed and put the phone down. He didn't need to deal with Mycroft right now. "So, Zap. Tell me about yourself." She smiled and took a drink from her wine glass.  
>"I like crime. Not participating, obviously. Just solving it." John laughed and drank from his own glass.<br>"Very much like your brother. He's a detective." Zapharia laughed and nodded.  
>"I know. I think you and him need to work on your friendship. How long have you been courting?" John was quite taken aback by her phrase. Young people didn't usually say 'courting'.<br>"About three years. I think. A long time." She frowned and sipped at her drink.  
>"A long time to participate in an experiment if it's doing nothing for you." She almost said it to herself. "Interesting."<p>

John stumbled back up to the hotel room, eleven glasses of wine later. Zapharia seemed fine, but she reminded him that she was very in control of her drinking, and had been taking in more than eleven units per day since she was a young child. John lectured her on how unhealthy it was in slurs before she laughed and called him a taxi.  
>He fell on the floor when he got in the room, laughing silently. He didn't want to wake Sherlock.<p>

Sherlock processed the thud from John's fall and it manifested in his dream as a gentle rolling thunder. In the conscious world, he mumbled about hydrogen bonds and rolled over with a weak cough and a sniffle. John shook his head endearingly—only Sherlock would say that in the middle of his sleep. John made his way to the chair, where he fell asleep.

"Did it feel good? When you killed them?" Avery's half-seductive whisper woke John up. Avery looked well-rested, peaceful. "I mean, you know I wanted to do it. Since it was rather my purpose in life. I want to hear the details. I want to relive it through you." John refused, having found the experience quite unpleasant. "Fine," Avery said and changed into fresh clothes. He was Sherlock again, taking his medicine as he came out of the bathroom. "You were smoking last night. I really wish you wouldn't, you know. Bit hypocritical of me, I realize, but I'm concerned for your health." He handed John a cup of water. "Same goes for the drinking. You have your own reasons not to, and I don't understand why you still ignore them."

"I texted you a few times. Look." John showed Sherlock his phone.

_Its quiwte opbvious that you want to sotp experimendting with mef_

_-j xxxx_

_I';msorry- j xxx_

_I lpove you_

_-J xxxx_

Sherlock frowned, trying to make out what he'd typed. John could feel a violent blush on his face, and he coughed to cover it up. "I got drunk so I could talk to you, because otherwise it seemed like you would not listen. I'm an idiot, I know." He drank the water and went to get a shower. Before he left, he turned to Sherlock.  
>"You would tell me, if you hated me, wouldn't you?"<p>

Sherlock looked away, embarrassed that when John was drunk, he noticed that Sherlock was starting to have serious misgivings about their relationship, though the observation didn't seem to be present when he was sober. "Of course. I may have been very seriously cross with you, but I didn't hate you. I don't think I could ever _hate _you."

While John was in the shower, Sherlock sat and thought. Despite the pain of the previous day, he couldn't feel either Avery or Liam. It was as if he were completely back to normal, though of course that wasn't true, and it made him feel more confident. He knew that by the time John got out of the shower, his medicine would completely have kicked in and he'd feel totally emotionless again, unless extremely provoked. It was comforting. It didn't dispel Avery and Liam, it only levelled them. But perhaps today, they wouldn't interfere at all.

There was a trickling from his nose and he realized that he really was getting quite ill. He blew his nose and cleared his throat, an act which once again turned into violent dry coughs, ending with a painful moan.

John got out of the shower, not noticing Sherlock sitting on the bed. He turned round to get his shirt and jumped. He was sitting in his thinking position, observing him. John didn't question him, instead he carried on getting changed. His eyes were moving when he walked across the room, following his every move.  
>"What're you doing?" John finally said. Sherlock waved one hand dismissively and carried on. He sighed and walked over to him. "Are you going to talk to me, or are you just going to watch me all day?" Sherlock didn't answer, he just looked at him. "Right. Okay. I'm going to watch a film, but you can watch me if it pleases you."<p>

Sherlock nodded. John ordered the film, after taking an hour to find one that wasn't French-dubbed or French to begin with, and settled back to watch. Sherlock still sat in the chair. _Dull. Boring. Predictable, _were the only thoughts he gave the film, an action-comedy. It was John he was interested in. He was aware that he was making John nervous, constantly watching, but he was too interested in John's body language to care._ Killed two men last night. Premeditated murder. Carries on like nothing happened. Drank, smoked, talked with someone (presumably). No visible psychological repercussions. No sign of remorse. Not even flinching at the violence in the film. Not normal, even for a soldier. Confrontation advisable? _ The thoughts took under a minute to fly through his head as the credits rolled.

"Did you take your medication yesterday?" It was the only word Sherlock was going to give the matter for now. "For that matter, have you taken it yet today?"

"No, and no. I forgot to bring them." John didn't look at him. "I thought they were in my bag, and they're not." He sighed, and turned the TV off. "Apart from being pissed off from yesterday, what more are you annoyed about? You know why I did what I did, and you know that I'm happy about it. I'm sorry if you don't want to hear it, but that's how it is. No more rape for us. So why aren't you pleased?"

"Aside from the obvious moral implications, there are also legal ones. When they find the bodies, anyone with any ounce of investigative sense will look for people who had anything against them and who were in the area." Sherlock was speaking in his tone usually reserved for work-related conversation. "You and I are the obvious suspects. There are witnesses who can vouch for the fact that I was here at the time of the murders. That leaves only you. You're an ex-soldier with a recent history of mental illness, including but not limited to suicidal tendencies and auditory hallucinations. This, combined with the fact that you hadn't taken your antipsychotic medication in at least two days, points further to the fact that you are most likely the killer. You may have thrown away the gun and removed the bullet casings, but every moment of human contact leaves traces, whether it's a footprint or a flake of skin or a hair that's fallen to the floor. Not to mention the security footage. It'll show you getting into active disguise, which goes toward showing that it was premeditated. Unless there was literally no trace of the crime, which would involve a third party removing the bodies and any hint of blood, I can hardly expect acquittal." Sherlock put his hands down from his thinking position. "Undoubtedly you failed to take into account Moriarty's lack of self-preservation. He knew that if you are put in prison, undoubtedly his goal of ruining us completely would be achieved. It could very well be an extension of his trap."

"I'm going out." John stood up and put his jacket on, without saying another word. He stormed out of the hotel to go and find Mycroft.

_Where are you? I need your help. As you know, I've made a mistake._

_-John_

He sighed strolled down to the canal. _It'd be so much easier if Sherlock wasn't here, don't you think? Nobody to judge you, only you and your heart of gold. You've always been the protector, John.  
><em>He shuddered and pulled out his phone, which had chimed.

_Doing the best I can. Covering your tracks. You're lucky that I'm so lenient with you, Doctor Watson. I have booked a flight for after the funeral which will be in two days. I want you to go home then._

_-M_

John pulled out a cigarette. He'd bought some last night and left them in his jacket pocket. Sherlock was unhappy about it, but then again, he was unhappy about John in general.

_If you want, I'll leave for good._

_-John._

He knew that it was probably for the best, even if it would send him mad.

Sherlock looked at John's text, confused at what brought on his emotional storm.

_You need space, obviously. Take what time you need. I'll cope. Somehow.  
>SH<em>

By now it was nearing noon and Sherlock decided to go out to eat for lunch. He felt as if the last five years had been erased. No emotional turmoil. No Avery or Liam. No Moriarty. No obligations to John. No John. The last realization stung a bit, but overall, he felt fine. Better than fine. Normal, for him.

He breathed in the fresh air, far fresher than London, and he found that he was actually enjoying being here, in Marseilles. Never mind the circumstances or the fact that right now he was alone. He knew that he could count on delightfully predictable John to come back in a few hours, maybe a day or two at most, and after all, isn't that what strained lovers did? Take a hiatus? Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all of that? He took a deep breath, which, predictably, ended in another coughing spell.

He followed the smell of rich coffee into a tiny establishment which could hardly be called a restaurant, and ordered soup and a sandwich. As he ate it, his phone rang with a reply.

_You know, as usual, I'm not thinking about myself. This is about what YOU want.  
>J x<em>

Sherlock tilted his head at the text, unsure of how to reply. So he didn't. Instead, he just sat and finished his lunch, which was not stellar, but well worth the price. He rose and left, strolling along the streets that not a month ago, he'd walked with John. The thought made him feel a prick of something he suspected was loneliness, but due to the medication, nothing more.

John didn't get a text back- he didn't expect one. Instead, he decided that maybe he should go home early. It was obvious that Sherlock didn't want him at the funeral, or near him at all. Maybe it was for the best.

_Okay. I'm going home. Unless you want me at the funeral. I doubt you do._

_-J x_

He took a drag of his cigarette and then threw it in the canal. _You can do what you want now._ John shook his head and sat down. If Sherlock wanted him, he knew how to reach him. Not that he would. Ever.

He thought about texting Sherlock, confessing how much this was hurting and all of that, but decided against it. Maybe it was better this way. For Sherlock.

Sherlock took his phone out and saw John's message. He still couldn't think of anything to say.

_I might need you there.  
>SH<em>

There he went again, saying something he may not have entirely meant, but he figured John needed to hear it.

_Though probably for the best, legally speaking, if you go.  
>SH<em>

Sherlock frowned.

_I'm not very good at this. Ignore me.  
>SH<em>

He slid his phone back into his pocket and continued to wander the streets. It was different without someone there, he noticed. With someone with you, you didn't see as many details in the brickwork and cobblestones. You didn't notice the other people, walking around, interacting, maybe making a hash of their own interpersonal relationships, maybe starting new ones. Being alone provided a different viewpoint, a more impartial eye to the world around you. He'd been around John so much of late, with his sabbatical from work and Sherlock's own needs, that he'd lost that detached vision. Having it back now made him realize just how much his life had changed, for better or worse.

"I've needed you," he muttered to a John that wasn't there.

_Be careful doing whatever you decide on.  
>SH<em>

It was probably the most sentimental text he'd ever send, but he felt like he needed to send it.

The sun was getting quite low in the sky when he made for the restaurant where he'd meet his half-sister properly for the first time. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Sherlock simply responded with "John won't be coming." His sensory input on seeing Zap told him really all that he wanted to know about her: _smoker, occasional drinker, French mother, observant, experimented with drugs (Father wouldn't have been pleased), well-to-do, single, no pets. Very much a Holmes. I can think._

"Sherlock," said Mycroft in his most formal tone. "This is Zapharia."

"Not bad for a woman who also happens to be demon-spawn." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably as he sat down. "Sorry, that…you say John's explained about Avery and Liam. On my medication, they are typically silent, though apparently not always," he finished, glaring as if at himself. "I'm Sherlock, obviously. Disregard any misogynistic comments or slanders against our father, that would be Avery, whose views I do not frequently agree with and who, despite his utter loathing for Father, has decided to use my middle name, Father's name." He looked at her. "Father would have been opposed to your drinking, smoking, and drug experimentation, I expect." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"We don't want to alienate her, Sherlock, bear in mind she's just lost her father."

"So have we," Sherlock pointed out. He flashed his fake smile at Zap, an apology given not because he meant it but because etiquette (and his brother) demanded it.

John tapped his phone in his hand, on his way back to the hotel. When he reached the lobby, he sent Sherlock another text.

_Forget about the legal implications. If you need me there, I'll be there. You'll always be priority. To me, at least._

_-J x_

He got back to his room and packed, in case Sherlock wanted him to leave. He received a text from Zap.

_I assume my brother didn't want you to come? We'll catch up some other time. He seems to be.. On edge. _

_-Zap x_

John sighed and decided he should sleep. If Sherlock wanted to talk, he would wake him up.

Sherlock felt strange, having Mycroft discuss their childhood in such detail with a practical stranger, even though admittedly, she was family and he didn't talk about too many of the private details that siblings tend to share. They compared the things that had previously seemed unique to the brothers, and it turns out that Zap had many of those in common as well. Intelligence, emotional detachment, a keen eye for observation, unquenchable curiosity, particularly for the slightly more morbid areas of study, and the ability to see the big picture.

Mycroft did most of the talking, Sherlock feeling the medication start to fade. He still couldn't quite feel the other minds present, but he felt the unwanted twang of emotion (especially nostalgia) as the evening progressed. Zap took an interest in his cases, and he brushed them off by saying he didn't have any active ones at present.

She expressed interest in one killer in particular, the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer, which made Avery start to laugh uncontrollably. Mycroft's look said _There's nothing about that situation that is in any way humorous and you know it better than most_.

"Sorry, just…that's funny." Avery's smirk faded as Sherlock regained control.

"Why?" Zap was curious and slightly confused.

"What?"

"What's funny about the Bird's Foot Trefoil killer?"

Sherlock shifted. "Avery…has taken a particularly obsessive interest in him. It was one of my cases, right after he formed." He frowned. "I suppose he found it funny that two Holmeses took such significant pains to research him." He violently threw his napkin onto the table and rubbed his head. "I…apologize. I find my situation distressing."

"Do you need to return to your room, Sherlock?"

"I'm not an invalid, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, holding back a coughing fit. "I'm…I'm just a bit tired, that's all."

Mycroft looked at his watch, and it was well past midnight. "Ah," he said. "Perhaps we should all be going our separate ways, in light of the time." Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm alright. Just need—" Zap had taken out a cigarette. "No, don't smoke." She lowered the lighter. "It triggers Avery. For some time he's dominant afterward." She put it down, feeling his explanation was enough. His eyes unfocussed. "I'm sorry Sherlock's rude," he said, clearly Liam. "I want to be your friend, Zap. Avery might not, and I don't think Sherlock has an opinion either way, but I think you're nice." He turned to Mycroft and wiped his nose. "I'm sleepy, My." He stood up and staggered slightly. "Um," he said, Sherlock once more. "I'm fine." He waved his arm dismissively. Mycroft was starting to look concerned. "Don't play the protective big brother. I'm fine." Sherlock was insistent that everything was as normal as could be expected and that he didn't want coddling. "But I suppose I should be headed back to the hotel." _Alone_, his look to Mycroft said.

As Sherlock walked away, he clearly heard Mycroft bid Zap a good evening and walk the other direction. It was strange, in his mind. Liam and Avery were both stirring, not even really to a level that Sherlock was aware, but more like the sensation of a thought that just won't go away. He still generally felt good, free, rewound, but instead of feeling like he was back before John, he now felt as he did that day at Buckingham Palace—slightly more open emotionally, but they had not yet begun to tarnish his exterior.

He opened the door to the room and walked in. Seeing John asleep in one of the beds made him smile—John was still here. He quietly went to the bathroom and took his sleeping pill, and hastily scribbled a note explaining why he'd taken the other bed from John.

_Not cross with you (much). Just still aversive to touch. And I'm getting a cold or 'flu and am contagious. Wouldn't want you ill as well._

He didn't bother signing the letter as he was certain John would have no trouble working out who'd written it. He changed into his sleepwear and quickly floated into dreams about the ocean.

John woke up screaming. He didn't notice Sherlock in the separate bed until he coughed and turned over. He then saw the note. _Right._ John tried to calm himself, but his mind was racing.  
><em>You're a murderer.<em> He flinched when he heard the voice, the one that had egged him on to do it in the first place.  
>"Shut up." John clutched onto his head and muttered. "You told me to do it." Sherlock sat up and looked at him, without saying anything.<br>_Now, Sherlock hates you like everyone else does. Well done. _John fell to the floor, still clutching his head. He started sobbing uncontrollably.  
>"I'm sorry." He sniffed, looking up at Sherlock who had got up to see if he was okay.<p>

Sherlock's voice was strange—his nose had grown too stopped up with mucus from his oncoming cold and all his n-sounds were d-sounds and his ms were bs, not to mention the fact that he was still very drowsy. "John?" He put his hand on John's shoulder cautiously. "Just a nightmare. Don't be alarmed. It's probably a good thing." He coughed weakly. "Shows you have a conscience." He made an attempt to smile, a genuine one, but it made his nose run. "Ugh." Sherlock blew his nose. "Should always make sure you've packed your meds."

Sherlock tried to lift John back into bed, but he was too weak and largely relied on John's strength. "I'd join you, but…you know." He gestured to his nose with one hand and his torso with the other. He coughed again as he crawled into the other bed, breathing noisily through his mouth as he fell asleep again.

John climbed in the bed with him regardless. "I don't care if I get sick. I'm scared." Sherlock turned round with a sigh and went to sleep, not pushing him away. John couldn't sleep, but he stayed completely still and quiet whilst Sherlock snuffled in his sleep.

His phone chimed halfway through the night, making him jump. He had fallen asleep after all.

_Sherlock didn't seem well before. Tell him I hope he gets better soon. I enjoyed meeting him._

_-Zap x_

He coughed and shut his phone. He put his arm around Sherlock again and fell back asleep.

The next morning, Sherlock wasn't in bed. He was in the shower, humming to himself. John smiled and stretched. Sherlock was happy again, which was the best thing that had happened in months.

It was a very long shower, too, as Sherlock was taking the advantage of the humidity to help ease his congestion. Every so often, the song would change, frequently mid-note, signalling a change in dominant personality. Eventually he emerged, and the fact that he'd forgotten his towel (but was nonetheless dry) was a clear sign that Avery was in charge at the moment.

"How are you now that the sun has risen?" His voice was slightly raspy, as it does when one sleeps with one's mouth open because of a cold, but it was clearer than earlier. He crossed to John and sat beside him. "Nightmares gone?" Avery put his hand on John's thigh.

"It's the voice that worried me. I'm better now, sort of." Avery smiled and cupped John's face, kissing him softly. John smiled, not pushing him away. Avery didn't try anything on, which was rare. He got up and changed, slowly pulling on his clothes with his eyes focused on John. "Why do you care about me? I'm a vile person." The words came out before he had a chance to think about them. "Sorry."

Avery laughed. "You? Vile? Rubbish." The laugh turned into a cough, which escalated to a full-on fit, Avery falling to his knees and gasping for air. He sat back up eventually, nose beginning to run again. "I care about you because I love you. Funny, the reversal there. I remember when Sherlock asked you the same thing and you gave the answer I just gave you." He stroked John's cheek. "I'm a little cross that you didn't leave me Moriarty, but what the hell, they're both gone and now we can focus on each—" He swayed. "John," came Liam's soft voice. "I don't feel good. I want to go back to sleep." He coughed a child's cough, just as enthusiastic, but he didn't cover his mouth. "Sorry." He got back into bed, rotated to where he could watch the television, and pulled the covers back over his head, wrapping himself up like a baby.

"Shh, it's okay." John crawled behind him and held him. Liam sniffled and dropped off to sleep, muttering in his sleep. John got up after a while to check Sherlock's phone.  
>There was a text from Mycroft, one from Zap, and one from his mother.<p>

"Liam, wake up. The funeral. We're going to be late." He handed him two paracetamol and a glass of water. He groaned, but got up all the same. John got a quick shower and got changed, and they left the hotel, Sherlock surfacing, with a grim look on his face.  
>"I'm here." John took his hand and he nodded, almost like a thank you.<p>

The funeral was already mid-service when they arrived, earning them some dirty looks from Sherlock's father's side of the family who'd obviously heard the opinions he'd had of his youngest son. Sherlock muttered apologies as he sat in a pew in the front, separate from John, obviously realizing he had to at least present the image of grieving child. The fact that his nose was already running helped his image.

Sherlock could barely focus—between the paracetamol, his cold, and the fact that both his hallucinations were back (Avery making snarky comments during Zap's eulogy and Liam in tears), it was very hard to make sense of anything. It was an open-casket ceremony, but Sherlock didn't make a move to see his father, artificially preserved and made-up to look acceptable. Mycroft and his mother said a few words, and then the ceremony ended, hymns the lyrics to which Sherlock had long since deleted floating to the roof of the church.

People came over to all of the Holmeses, offering their condolences, and all Sherlock would say was "He was my father." A factual statement, of course, from Sherlock anything else would have been grossly out of character. Zap was getting most of the attention, and Sherlock thought one of her well-wishers looked at him and winked, the face of Moriarty.

He couldn't help it. Logic went out the window. The fact that Moriarty was dead didn't matter. Avery took over and before anyone could do anything, he was charging out the door, and had tackled a man who could easily have been Moriarty's stunt double. Mycroft was apologizing: "I'm afraid my brother has been ill of late. Excuse me." Avery had grabbed the man by the hair and was hitting his head against the pavement of the parking lot.

"You're dead, you bastard!" He was hysterical. "You're dead and you show up to my father's damn funeral, you fucking _bastard_!" It wasn't Moriarty, of course, whose head Avery was repeatedly smashing against the pavement, but that one fevered glimpse of a face that was close enough had set him off.

John was trying to pull him off, which resulted in Avery punching John in the face, knocking him to the floor. Zapharia helped him up and kicked Avery in the side.  
>"Stop it right now, you're making Sherlock look monstrous!" Avery stood up and growled, but he didn't touch her. People had called the police, and before John knew, they were carting off a very confused Sherlock in a police van. Everyone was tutting and passing comments as this happened, and John walked out behind them, as they wanted to question him.<p>

"Do you want to press charges, Dr Watson? He has physically assaulted you twice, in France now. He is going to be deported and his sentence will be decided in London." John shook his head and they noted it down. The police then went to question the man who had been taken to hospital.

_I'm doing my best to sort this out, give me time._

_-M_

Mycroft was on the other side of the church yard, and he nodded sincerely at John with an embarrassed look on his face. John followed the police to the station in a police car, feeling ashamed.

"Why am I being locked up?" Sherlock's hands hurt, so he must have been fighting, but beyond that, he didn't know what had happened. "Why am I in here?" For now, he was in a simple cell while the police dealt with the paperwork. "Pardon," he said, his cold making his French accent utterly pathetic. "Pourquoi ai-je été arrêté?" The French rs drove him into another coughing fit, and one of the officers approached.

"You do not remember?" He watched Sherlock closely.

"If I remembered, I wouldn't be asking," Sherlock pointed out.

"Monsieur Holmes, you are known internationally as the world's greatest detective and yet you claim not to know that you assaulted a man unprovoked, and then hit your own lover. I find this rather hard to believe." He was sincere in his confusion.

"I…what?" Sherlock was startled. "Wh—oh, never mind, you just said unprovoked, obvious, stupid."

"Doctor Watson is not pressing charges, which I find rather odd, considering the circumstances under which you were last forced to leave Marseilles. The other man is in hospital with a serious concussion. You do not remember attacking him?"

"I've already said I didn't."

The Frenchman wrote this down in a little book he often used to keep case notes in, even though there was a security camera keeping track of Sherlock's every move. "You were not meant to be in France any way, and we have only permitted you to return to the country because of your father's death, but you have abused this."

"Hardly intentionally. If you must know, I—" He clenched his jaw. "I suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorder."

"Multiple personalities?" The policeman raised an eyebrow as Sherlock coughed again, though more gently.

"That is rather what I just said."

"And one of these personalities, he is violent?"

Sherlock shifted on the makeshift bed. "Occasionally." Just then, the door knocked. The policeman stood up and went to the door, and allowed John and Mycroft in. Sherlock stood, but sat straight back down again, the change in blood pressure making him dizzy, and also bringing Liam to dominance. "John, please get me out of here. I want to go home."

"I can't. You know I would if I could but Avery… Look, we're trying our best." He reached his hand over a squeezed it. "You're going to be okay." Liam nodded, holding in tears. Mycroft put his hand on Liam's other free and and tried to smile.  
>"Everything will be fine, little brother." The police then asked them to leave so they could question Avery, even though they explained that getting him through was not that simple.<p>

After about three hours, they released him on bail, on the promise that he'd return to London tonight and check in with the police when he arrived.


	9. Pneumonia

Sherlock's fever was starting to return by the time he left the police station and his coughing was far worse than the previous day, causing him to gasp for air. The trio boarded the plane (Mycroft had their things sent to the airport along with them), and they had Sherlock sit between them—one of the constraints placed upon them. He sat silently, deep in thought, for the entire trip, and only when they disembarked did he speak, revealing that somewhere along the trip, Avery had taken control.

"Well. You can't blame me. I thought he was Moriarty. I thought somehow the bastard was still alive. Again. I mean, the first time, he blew his damn brains out just a couple of feet from me and managed to survive." He staggered forward, head spinning from the mucus in his ears. Liam spoke next. "I'm tired, John. Please can we go home now? All I want to do is lay in bed and watch cartoons with you and Louis and Hamish."

"You have to go see the police first," said Mycroft sternly. "Then we'll see if they'll let you go home." Liam nodded sadly, causing another spinning fit inside his ears, which in turn made him fall down.

"I'm so dizzy," he moaned. "I feel sick."

"We could get you a wheelchair." Mycroft said sternly. "I know they have those at the airport." John supported Liam until they found one. They had to quickly put him in a car before the press arrived, which was rather difficult, but they managed.

They went straight to Scotland yard. Lestrade tutted as he signed papers to release Sherlock on bail until a trial next Thursday. He was electronically tagged, and had a curfew of six am to seven pm.

When they finally got back to Baker street, Mrs Hudson told them about how good Louis had been and they didn't mention what had happened in France, although she'd noticed the tag.

"So, what do you want to eat? You've not eaten properly in days, and since you're probably going to be under my care again, I have to do a good job." John sighed, putting his bags down.

Liam coughed. "I just want to sleep. But, um, soup might be good." He wiped his nose on his sleeve before wincing. "My coat's going to get all yucky," he muttered. He sat up sharply and looked around. "Oh," Sherlock said, having realized he'd blanked out again, unaware of Liam's activities. John had to help him up the stairs, where he was too tired to protest the fact that he was going to his own room rather than John's upstairs. It didn't matter anyway; Moriarty was dead and he wasn't likely to have anyone else break in through the window.

Mrs. Hudson brought up some homemade soup, which Sherlock ate quickly but weakly. "Thank you," he said blearily. He held up his foot. "'Zis really necessary? 'S not like I'm going anywhere." He pointed to his closet. "Get the humidifier," he mumbled. Louis jumped up on him, landing square on his stomach, causing him to cough violently, not nearly as dry, but still not enough to where anything would come up. Louis ran under the bed until the fit passed, at which point he jumped up more respectfully beside Sherlock. "Miserable," Sherlock said as he lay back into his pillows that hadn't been slept in in nearly three weeks (he noticed Mrs. Hudson had changed the bloody sheets, though). "Ugh."

"Do you want to be left alone?" John popped his head around the door and smiled. Sherlock shook his head and coughed, shifting over in the bed to let John in. John slid in next to him, yawning.  
>"Sleep." He smiled, and Sherlock tutted, but agreed. John's phone chimed, rather loudly.<p>

_Please give Sherlock my best wishes._

_-Zap x_

"Zapharia wishes you the best. Go on now, sleep. I'm going to clean the place up and put some food out for Louis. You need to be well rested for court if we're going to get you out of this mess."

Sherlock nodded, but again, it made him dizzy so he shut his eyes and remained still. He pulled the blankets up to his shoulders, but ten minutes later he was staggering almost drunkenly into the kitchen. "Keep tabs on my temperature," he mumbled once he found John before almost walking into the table. "Um…I forgot what I was going to say." He blinked and walked back to his bed, falling into it, barely remembering to get under the covers again.

He woke several times over the next few hours, losing track of time, never falling into a deep enough sleep to dream. Louis moved anywhere from his feet to across the back of his head, silent until Sherlock moved, at which point a loud purr started. It was usually coughing that woke Sherlock, typically quite violent, though once (and Sherlock checked the time, 1:37 am) he was awoken by John coming into bed next to him.

"Gsnohn?" Sherlock didn't roll over to face him, hoping John would try to keep some distance between them physically, as he wasn't sure how he'd react to touch, as he was still inclined to tense up with bad memories. "Ndon'd wanna cough atchoo," he explained, drifting off again.

John went out to the chemist to fill up on supplies. When he came back, Sherlock had tried to walk to the couch, but had passed out on the coffee table.  
>"Come on, idiot." He helped him up to the couch. He was light, lighter than usual, which John hated. Sherlock didn't stir until a few hours later, frowning, confused as to why he'd ended up on the couch.<br>"Right. Take these." John had put bottles and bottles on the coffee table in front of him.  
>"Vitamin C," He smiled, holding up a glass of fizzy orange liquid. "Drink it."<br>Sherlock groaned and swallowed it down.  
>"Now, Painkiller, fever reducer, mucus cough syrup, and food."<p>

"And my other med," Sherlock muttered after the fizz caused another coughing fit. He took the bottle and frowned at it after taking the pill. "Won't have enough until Thursday," he said, his voice full of dread. "'N I'm not missing again." He took the other medicine, but sighed at the food, eating it reluctantly. He paused midway through a bite and looked up, head tilted. "I wanna watch a film," he said, Liam's childlike tones tainted by his stopped-up nose. "But I don't wanna watch Pirates again. What's that one with the Sasquatch and the psychic ghost and the scuba-breather man? I've never seen it." He finished his food while John figured out that he was talking about Star Wars (inducing a laugh at Liam's description of Chewbacca), and then laid back down on the couch, curled slightly, making room for John to sit by his head.

"Here," John put the DVD on and sat by Liam's head. Liam rested his head on John's lap with a sigh. He ran his fingers through Liam's hair, playfully. The film seemed much longer than John remembered, and he dropped off in the middle of it.

His dream was strange. He and Sherlock were in Afghanistan, both soldiers who were captured by the enemy. They had been tied back to back, both at gunpoint. It took John a moment to realize who the enemy was. Moriarty and Moran were smiling at them, holding rifles at their heads.  
>"You've been very naughty, boys." Jim coo'ed with a sly grin across his face. Sherlock was holding John's hands behind the chair where they were tied.<br>"I'm going to be naughty now, too. Sebby?" There was a loud bang, and Sherlock was shot, causing John to wake up with a scream.

Liam jerked awake—he, too, had fallen asleep. In spite of the medication to numb his emotions, John's scream sent him into near-hysterical sobs, very much like a distraught child. "Don't scream! Don't scream! Don't ever ever scream!" John's scream of terror had brought back horrible memories of the barn, augmented by fever and the combination of various chemicals in his bloodstream. Liam found that he was unable to process thoughts any more, only chemically-reduced feelings. His eyes were shut tightly and his hands were to his head as he spouted every thought that came to his mind with breakneck speed. "Please, I didn't mean to hurt you, I couldn't stop myself, I really really couldn't, don't hate me, oh God please don't remember this, please John's brain save him from it, too much blood, John please don't die, I don't want you to die, I don't want me to kill you, it wasn't even Avery, it was me, it was me, don't die, please please don't die…" And then his words were replaced by incoherent noises of distress, his whole mind consumed with the memories of the nightmare moment, Sherlock's biggest regret.

When John had stopped screaming, he noticed that Sherlock/Liam was mumbling and crying. "I'm sorry. I had a nightmare. About uhm, well not about what happened in the barn. Don't be scared." He picked him up and took him to bed, curling up with him. "Please don't blame yourself. It was a mistake. I understand what happened. I remember it, but it's in the past. Please. I love all three of you too much to let this upset you."

Liam continued to cry for at least ten more minutes, scared senseless. In a way, that experience was more traumatic for Sherlock (and thus Liam) than the rapes had been, simply because Sherlock himself was the cause of it with no external influence. He'd had far more nightmares about it than anything else in his entire life (it was the reason he felt he needed sleeping pills), and he desperately wished his brain would suppress the memories. When the fit had finally passed, Liam looked up at John, confused for an instant, and then hugged him. "I'm glad you're okay. I never want to see you bleed ever again, not even just a little." He kissed John's cheek. "I really do love you, John." He sniffled and coughed gently. Louis jumped back up onto the bed. Liam chuckled weakly, rubbing the cat's head. "I love you too, Louis."

John's phone rang. It was Mycroft, informing him that there was a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation of Sherlock this afternoon. By the time the call had finished, Liam was asleep again, face twitching slightly, but nothing too extreme.

John decided to leave him a few hours sleep while he got a shower and changed. He could hear him mumbling in his sleep, like Avery and Sherlock were talking to him.

"Wake up, love." John shook him awake, and was pulled down into the bed. It was Avery, who climbed on top of him, licking his lips. "Darling, I'd love to stay here, but because of what happened in France, we have to go for an assessment today. Get up and changed." Avery growled and stormed out of the room into the bathroom, getting a shower.

"Get the pronoun right. I'm the only one allowed to misuse 'we'," he grumbled through the door stuffily. "And 'darling' makes you sound like one of those timid old ladies you meet in the shop who are scolding you for not putting the cabbage back perfectly where it was." Avery made an attempt to sing in the shower but it was clearly half-hearted, his medicine sapping any enthusiasm.

There was a crash and fall from the shower, followed by pained grunting and the shower curtain clearly in the shower itself. "I'm fine," a voice that was clearly Sherlock called. "Just got dizzy." Further thumping ensued as Sherlock tried to put the curtain into place. He came out not long afterward, tired and with the medicated dead look to his eyes. "I can hear them today, John. Their thoughts. As strongly as the other weekend, though the medication helps to keep Avery's fantasies from being too extreme." He clenched his jaw. "It's no less disturbing, but I think I can manage."

They caught a cab to the center where Husseys office was. Sherlock grabbed onto John's hand, which surprised him, but he appreciated it all the same. "Are you nervous by any chance? You're shaking. It's very out of character." Sherlock shook it off and composed himself, taking a deep breath before they walked into the office.

"We'd like you to stay outside, Doctor Watson." The door was shut in John's face, and he was left to wait for the results.

"How are you, Sherlock?"

"Ill. And unnerved."

"Have you been taking your medication?"

"…usually."

Hussey looked at him cautiously. "Why only usually?"

"I…had a minor fit. I think the term is that I was triggered. Slept through to the next day, and nearly missed my father's funeral." Sherlock sat as calmly as could be expected, but was fidgeting every so often.

"Ah. So you were off your medication at the time of the attack."

"Yes."

"What triggered you, the previous day?"

Sherlock couldn't help breaking eye contact. "Moriarty…accosted me. Made very unwanted physical contact. Grabbed me." He was growing strained to think of what had happened next. "After that, I remember nothing clearly. There was some discussion of John threatening him or something to that effect. Stop talking about it, it only hurts and you know it, and you might get John in trouble. Yes, thanks for that, but I don't think—shut up now, alright." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, tired, but it didn't last long as he started coughing. Hussey raised an eyebrow. The camera in the corner was constantly running, aimed at Sherlock, recording the session for court use.

"Have you taken your medication today?"

"Yes. And it seems to be working overall."

"Not today?"

"It severely dampens my emotions. It does nothing to dispel their thoughts, and only barely suppresses hallucinations."

"I see. Are you hallucinating now?"

"Not as such. Their thoughts are…loud. As loud as my own. Avery's thinking about…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, about John, actually. Liam's composing."

"Composing?"

"Mentally humming a new piece of music."

"Ah. What do you remember about the attack itself?"

"Nothing everything." Sherlock moaned. "Avery's overlapping. Trying to speak."

"Let him."

Sherlock's eyes blurred and he adopted a more arrogant posture. Avery. "I thought he was Moriarty. I've wanted to kill him for so long now that I thought my chance had come. That's all. I saw him talking to my half-sister and took the opportunity."

"You said you thought he was dead."

"I did. I do. But if anyone can come back from the dead, it's that bastard. Please don't use words like that, they're not nice. Shut up. Don't fight. I'm speaking."

"Did you know what you were doing was wrong?"

"Oh, you're headed for the insanity defense," Avery laughed. "Beating up a random man unprovoked, yeah, that's wrong. Beating the shit out of a criminal mastermind that the law can't touch, that's just justice delivered. Didn't realize it wasn't Moriarty, that's all."

"I see."

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"'I see' like the patronising git that most people think psychiatrists are. I know it must suck for you to have your pay docked this month, but you don't have to take it out on me. Stop that, it's not about him, even though it's obvious from his lunch ticket, just please focus on answering the questions, shut the hell up, he's talking to me." Hussey was grateful to be getting this all on camera; it could come in handy at the trial. Avery shuddered, his fever returning, eyes rolling slightly. "Please don't hurt Sherlock. It was Avery who did it. Sherlock wouldn't have hurt that man. But I do think that it was the Spider Monster we saw. Not the man that got hurt, but there was someone there who really looked like him."

"Liam, are you aware that Moriarty's body was found in a hotel, the morning of your father's funeral?"

"N…no," he said, starting to tear up. "I didn't know that. Does that mean we imagined him?"

"I'm afraid it does."

Liam's tears were flowing now. He was so distressed by the thought of it not having been Moriarty that the upset broke through the emotional block of the medicine. "I'm sorry Avery hurt that man. I'm sure he is a nice man and that his wife is nice too and is probably sad for him. I'm sorry, I really really am, but I don't want Sherlock or me to be punished because it was Avery who hurt him. Will the man be okay?"

Hussey couldn't help but smile. "Yes, Liam, he will."

"Good." Liam coughed and once again, the action triggered a change. Sherlock was back at the helm. "It's too easy today, the changes. Their thoughts are too loud, too…present."

Hussey stood. "Thank you for your time, Sherlock. I think we have what we need." He was grim. Sherlock rose slowly, knowing the blood pressure change was going to make him dizzy if he didn't, and wiping his nose on the tissues provided. Sherlock grunted acknowledgement and made his way to the waiting area where John had fallen asleep in the middle of reading a magazine. Sherlock smiled fondly.

John was woken up by a hand on his shoulder. "Hello, how was it?" Sherlock explained on the way out of the building, taking John's hand again, but with much more ease this time.

"Let's go for lunch, my treat." He smiled, as they walked up the road. Sherlock agreed, and they caught a cab to Angelo's.

"This man saved me from prison, free meals for him and his date!" Angelo shrieked to the waiters as they sat in their usual seats.  
>"God, does he <em>have<em> to say that every single time we come here? It's been years now."

"Some people express gratitude with a kiss or with a Christmas card every year. It's no less annoying than this." Sherlock tried to smile, tried to be happy, but Liam's mental humming was conflicting with the ambient music, and he found it painful, knowing Liam was unaware and thus unable to stop. Avery, for his part, was more concerned with getting John into bed and trying for sex again, trying to replace traumatic sense-memory with good memories.

Sherlock made it all the way through his chicken and pasta in near-silence, figuring he'd be unable to have a normal conversation anyway today. As Angelo took his plate when he was done, John realized Sherlock was staring at him vacantly, completely still, even more than usual. It took John actually pinching him in the leg five minutes later to get any reaction out of him, at which point he blinked and swayed.

"Would you boys like some dessert?" Angelo was suddenly hovering over them, oblivious to any trouble they might have been having. Sherlock blinked more before turning to him.

"Vanilla ice cream with…um…surprise me about the stuff on top." Angelo winked and left. Liam coughed again. "I think my cold medicine has stopped working."

"You're due more when we get home. While you were in the office, I got more. Here's your ice cream." John smiled, but when Liam tucked into his ice cream, Avery took the bowl and threw it.  
>"For gods sake," John hissed. "Must you do that? You make us look bad." Angelo didn't say anything, he just guessed that Sherlock had far too much to drink and needed to go home. John apologized and took him into a cab.<p>

When they got home, Mrs Hudson opened the door, crying. "Oh boys, I'm so glad you're home. I've had a spot of bother with the neighbors. One of them had a gun. They demanded to know where you were."  
>"What?" John almost screamed. "Who were they? What did they want?" Avery stayed quiet, his eyes fixated on John.<br>"They're new. They wanted to know where you were, and I said I didn't know, and they threatened me with a gun," She wiped her eyes, "…and then they held up a gun, and said, as soon as you turn up I had to tell you they were looking for you. They said they work for the spider." With that, she left and went into her flat.

"Fuck," Avery said, the instant Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot. "Fuck," he repeated before shutting his eyes tightly and putting his hands to his head as Sherlock did when trying to think. "Stop saying those words, Avery! Fuck you, Liam! Fuckidy fuck fuck fuck. I said please stop! Just calm down and focus, both of you. We can't do this right now." He stood up and paced the lower hallway outside the stairs, scratching his head frantically. "If I go after them, this damned anklet will give me away. Revenge, see? It was always a possibility. Sentiment. Does strange things to a person." His breathing was sharp and quick, the only thing keeping him from a near-panic was his medication. "She's the closest thing to a mother who cares I've ever had. You don't fuck with Mrs. Hudson." He sneered cruelly. "Not even if you're Mr. Hudson." It was obvious that Avery was bordering on one of his homicidal moods. "Neighbours, yes? Shall we visit them, John?"

"No. Uh, yeah. I don't know. They might kill me. Or you." Avery looked around frantically and then grabbed onto John's face, trying to convince him to go.  
>"Fine. But this isn't going to end well. Don't cause trouble. Sherlock <em>will<em> end up in prison if you do."

They walked up the street, peering in windows and knocking on doors. When they found the right house, they were dragged into it.  
>"So glad to finally meet you, Holmes and Watson." A bald man with a cigar in his mouth was sitting at a table, which had playing cards and chips on it. "You took out the spider, I believe. Brave move." He took a shot of alcohol and smiled. "Sit."<p>

"Get to the point. What do you want?" Avery was upset, violently upset, and if he hadn't been on the medication, blood would already have been spilt. "And who the hell do you think you are, threatening my landlady?"

The man smiled, the level of sinister in the room growing to dangerous levels. "We just wanted to find out where you were. That's all. Drink?" He offered a glass of whiskey to them, which Avery accepted but didn't drink.

"And what for, to congratulate us on getting rid of Moriarty? Because I can assure you, anyone threatening to hurt someone close to me is liable to go the same way." Avery twitched unpleasantly. One of the other personalities was trying to fight his way forward.

"Trouble sitting still, Mr. Holmes?"

Avery's nose twitched in disgust. "I'm doing my best to hold my vomit down, that's all. You sicken me. And it's obvious that you wanted more than a quick hello. If that was all you wanted, you'd have phoned."

"No. I like to make a scene. It gets attention." He took a drag of the cigar and blew the smoke at John. "You two have such a busy lifestyle, it must be difficult to get hold of you at the best of times." Avery snarled, getting red in the face.  
>"Why would you do that? You could write a text or a letter or.. stop me at the shops? I don't understand." John took a shot back and frowned.<br>"Listen. You two are celebrities. If people saw us conversing, well, never mind. It's _far _ too complex to explain. But congratulations. You killed him. Stay and drink, by all means. That if you're not.." He looked at Avery's crotch and then John, "Busy."

Avery snapped. He threw the glass at the man, drink and all, so hard it shattered. He was shaking and holding the man's throat with his arm. "Filthy fucking well better back off of that." He was so shaken by the invasion of his privacy and also by his ability to translate the man's body language that he couldn't even speak correctly. "Don't you dare, don't you fucking dare go there or I'll reach my hands around your neck and kill you now." And indeed, he had grabbed the man strangely, his thumb and fingers on either side of his trachea, cutting off blood flow. But the man was unconcerned; in fact, he smiled. Before too long, Avery realized why—every single one of the other men in the building were within inches of him, gun barrels to his head. And the distraction proved disastrous as Avery was no longer able to keep control. His pause was only noticeable to John, who knew what the freeze meant.

"Good day," Sherlock said and stood upright. "You may or may not be hearing from me in the near future. I hope for your sake that you don't. Come on, John." They left the building and re-entered their own, Sherlock half-collapsing onto the sofa with a cough. "I…blanked out. I didn't know what Avery was doing." He was clearly rattled. "One moment, Angelo's, the next, that. What happened, exactly?"

"They came after Mrs Hudson. Looking for us, about Moriarty. Come on, can we just go to bed? I'm shattered. Honestly." Sherlock nodded and followed him into John's room. John changed into his pajamas and got into bed, Sherlock joining him, but not touching him. They lay in silence for a while, until John remembered Sherlock's meds. "Oh, you'll want to go and take the pills now." Sherlock sighed and got up, returning with Louis in his arms.  
>John had a nagging question at the back of his mind, but he decided it was better left unsaid, maybe for tonight at least.<p>

"God, John," Sherlock whispered after laying in silence for a while, Louis curled up between them. "I'm so messed up, I don't even know what day it is." He snorted in an effort to help clear his nose, a weak cough following it. "Or was," he added, exhausted. "It's worse than the cocaine addiction." He half-mumbled it, only half-meant it, and didn't mean to say it aloud at all. And he wasn't sure if John heard it.

In the middle of the night, John woke to find Sherlock(?) clinging onto him for dear life, shaking. When John asked what was wrong, Sherlock looked up into his eyes, trying his best in the dark to see. His response was mumbled. "You were falling, I was falling, and the blood, and Moriarty, and the _pain_, John, and Moran in your clothes, and the ropes on my chest, and the infection in yours, and I couldn't escape before I hit the pavement again, and our bones cracked." The beads of sweat covering him were not from his fever breaking, but rather from fear. He'd forgotten to take a sleeping pill.

He took his sleeping pill, and John slipped his hand around Sherlock's shoulders, causing him to flinch with surprise, but he was sleepy so he eventually put his head on John's shoulder. Louis mewed quietly around their feet, falling asleep. John, however, couldn't sleep. _Murderer._ His closed his eyes and hummed to himself, trying to block out the voice. _Filthy murdering bastard. _He shook his head, waking Sherlock up. "Sorry, just bad dreams." Sherlock nodded and mumbled something, but then went back to sleep, leaving John alone with the voice.

John, on the threshold of sleep, mumbled replies to the voice. It woke Sherlock. It was as if hearing only half a conversation, like listening to someone on the telephone. He wondered if it was what he sounded like when he didn't realize he was speaking aloud to Avery or Liam and the thought disturbed him enormously. He found himself humming softly, a song he'd only heard in his head, in Liam's mind, as he held onto John.

It didn't work and soon John was talking in his sleep to the voice. Sherlock had fallen back asleep but was awoken by a firm "No." Sherlock was too bleary to think of anything to do, and he was starting to grow seriously upset, feeling his mind trying to withdraw at the horror of what John's mind was doing to him. He blanked out, none of his minds quite in control of his body. He was essentially sleepwalking as he went downstairs to try to escape the fear and actually broke into Mrs. Hudson's flat and fell asleep on her sofa.

John didn't notice that Sherlock was gone until he woke him up by knocking on the door. He had a blanket over his shoulder and was still in his pajamas, so it was obvious that he'd not gone out.  
>"Where did you go?" John yawned sleepily, even though he'd slept a whole night, he was exhausted. Sherlock told him about him talking to the voice in his sleep, and how he'd went to Mrs Hudson's.<br>"Right… I'm sorry. Come on, I'll make you breakfast."

"Not your fault," Sherlock said. "No more than Avery or Liam are mine." He led the way to the kitchen, sitting down and staring at the empty mug. "I left. Didn't realize it until I woke up on Mrs. Hudson's sofa. Could have been sleepwalking." He watched John busy himself in the kitchen. "I need you to…to act normal, John. It was disturbing last night. It's overly sentimental to say it, but…" He sighed, working the metaphor into shape in his mind. "My lighthouse was built on less solid ground than I'd have liked. I need your foundation on rock, not sand. I can't deal with this unless I have a steady light guiding me."

He rose to the coffee maker, turning it on, an offer to make coffee for both of them. He breathed in the sweet smell of the coffee brewing, then remembered to take his own medication. Sherlock went to the bathroom and returned with several bottles—cough medication, decongestant, vitamins, fever reducer, and both his and John's psychiatric medicine. He handed John his before laying all of his own medicines out in a row. He frowned at his antipsychotic, shaking his head, knowing he would run out before his trial, which might lead to a fit in the courtroom, with all the dark memories that were bound to surface. "They're almost absent. I sort of…smell them. Not used to olfactory hallucinations on their own. Candy floss and cigarettes." He poured the coffee, two sugars for himself, milk for John, and sat, taking his medicines and watching as John scrambled eggs.

"I picked you up more pills," John said, not turning around. "They're in my jacket pocket, I can't risk you having a fit." Sherlock sighed and padded over to the sofa where John's jacket was, taking the pills out and putting them with the rest.  
>"Here, coffee and eggs." John sat opposite him with a smile, making sure he was eating properly. Sherlock shoveled it in, and swigged his coffee.<br>"Hungry were we? Right okay. Do you want to go out today? It's up to you."

Sherlock nodded and sat back in his chair. "Need to get some books. Never needed to know about Dissociative Identity Disorder before, so my collected literature on the subject is rather sparse." He looked down, almost ashamedly. "And some for Liam. He does have my reading comprehension ability, so we could have a problem with finding content suitable at the right reading level. And some…adult literature for Avery. That way, he can—" Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. "You understand."

John agreed and made to get dressed. Sherlock returned to his own room to change, the fine tailored suits starting to fit him again. As he opened the closet door, a sharp pain erupted in his sinuses and temples and he cried out. John rushed in, buttoning his shirt and asking if Sherlock was fine. "Sinus headache," Sherlock said, but he knew that wasn't all there was to it. Undoubtedly there was a psychological aspect as well—the pain was reminiscent of the pain of the electrical operation that has been meant to destroy Avery. Sherlock finished dressing, the sudden sharp pain now fading to a dull throb. "Shall we?"

"Mhm." John linked him, and noticed that every so often he tensed. "Are you okay?" Sherlock dismissed it with a wave of his hand and carried on walking up the street. "I'm going to get some books too. I should probably read up on the condition you have, seeing as I'm your doctor. Sort of your doctor." Sherlock nodded, but he wasn't paying attention, so much so, that he walked into a lamppost.

"Idiot." John sighed. They'd had to return home so John could stitch the gash up in his head. Sherlock didn't seem to mind too much, and he wanted to go back out.  
>"No. You could have concussion. I want you to stay in for about an hour." He sighed and stormed into his room, leaving John alone in the living room.<p>

Sherlock threw a minor quiet tantrum. His most treasured possession, his own brain, was betraying him in so many ways and even on the medication that severely dampened his emotions, he felt like raging. He settled for knocking over his bookshelf, scattering books and wood everywhere. The only thing that stopped him was another attack of head pain, so severe in conjunction with his minor concussion that he fell to the floor. "Why are you doing this to me?" He had no idea what he was talking to, specifically, but he needed to shout anyway. He felt as though he might be sick and wobbily ran to the bathroom, hovering over the toilet, hands on the tank, eyes squeezed shut, sweating profusely. After five minutes of not throwing up but feeling like he was going to, he left the room and opened his laptop, half-throwing the bottles of his various medications at the computer.

"Mm, interac…the active ingred…" He was mumbling to himself, never finishing his thoughts aloud. "John," he said after some time. "The decongestant and antipsychotic have a dangerous inter—OW!" He grabbed his head, and suddenly went even more pale, even losing consciousness momentarily, but catching himself before hitting the floor. "Needs monitoring, not lethal, just…ungh." He passed out again, heart racing wildly and stuttering on occasion.

John placed him in the recovery position in bed whilst Mrs Hudson watched him. He'd gone down to the bookstore and chose something for each of them. When he returned home, the men from last night were sitting in the living room, with Avery.

"What's going on?" John put the bags down and paced in, but he was ignored.  
>"So you see, we need you to do a job for us, whoever kill Jim." The bald man lit up and Avery took a cigarette from him. "You will be paid. A great sum."<p>

Avery lit his cigarette. "There are three things you need to understand." He took a long drag, knowing that these men were hanging on his every word. "First: there's no real evidence that either John or myself murdered Moriarty and I'm hardly likely to incriminate either of us. Second: I don't kill for money. I'm not a gun for hire. Consulting detective, not assassin. If, hypothetically speaking, I were to kill, it would be for my own purposes and not to satisfy the desires of others. Third: I'm extremely disinclined to do anything for an ex-employee of Moriarty. Or anyone who ever had anything to do with him." He sat back, the cigarette smoke starting to fill the room, and his breathing indicating to the trained eye that he was suppressing coughs. "You undoubtedly understand my reasons. Or at least, you seem to, judging by where your glances keep straying." He sat in silence for a few seconds, relishing the spotlight. "Ah, John, join us." He gestured to the sofa, the only open seating available, and John took it cautiously. Avery was wearing Sherlock's _I think we have a case_ look, and it disturbed John enormously. Then Avery gave his little sneer of half-hidden excitement. "But please, do go on. In _full_ detail. Names. Places. Motivations." His smile lost any attempt at hiding and he leaned forward, an extremely sinister look that only John knew was Avery's twisted delight firing up behind the silvery eyes. "And, of course, the money."

"Shall we say, one hundred grand?" The man pulled out his cheque book with a grin. "As for the rest of the information, it will be disclosed to you when or if you accept the job." Avery raised an eyebrow.  
>"We'll get back to you." John stammered quickly. The men nodded and left. Avery snarled at him, and walked into Sherlock's room, slamming the door behind him.<br>"I'm not interested." John called through the door before going into his own room.

Avery shouted his replies across the flat. "Think of it this way, John. We can always wait until we get full disclosure and then turn them in." But that certainly wasn't Avery's objective. The money was good, at least, if nothing else, and that meant it was a high-profile target. It had been some time since Avery's last kill, and he noticed a definite tingle at the prospect of killing again. The potential for pleasure was a high one. "Besides, this damned ankle unit means there's walking proof of wherever I've gone, anyway, so it's not like I could take the job." His mind was already working as to how to get out of the anklet, laying on the bed in Sherlock's thinking pose—finally a chance to use his great mind, uncluttered by emotions thanks to his medication.

He noted how strange today's hallucinations were. Sherlock's mind smelled of antiseptic, like the laboratory at Bart's. Liam's was candy floss. Sherlock had already noted how Avery's mind smelled of cigarettes. Antiseptic and candy floss. What a funny old thing his brain was, he mused as he took a drag of his cigarette. Even partitioned like a hard drive, his processor speed was phenomenal. Avery sat up and stamped out his cigarette, fully aware of what happened last time he'd been in bed with one, and not eager to repeat it. He lay back down on the bed, absorbed in his own mind, trying to work out how to a) get the anklet off without anyone knowing, b) accept the job without John knowing, and c) take the money without arousing any suspicions.

_Could make them pay half up-front. Fifty grand? Simple. We're low on money anyway. Wonder who it is. Someone of importance or they wouldn't have come to me—well, to John, technically—to have someone take them out. Someone dangerous. This could be fun._

The incredibly painful headache interrupted Avery's thoughts. It really was like that machine again, shocking his brain into some sort of shape (and failing). But right now, it was worse than earlier, his whole body protesting the sharp pain in his head again. He shouted out and clutched his head, stomach churning from the pain. He made it to the toilet before vomiting, but only just, and when John came to check on him, he was standing over it again, eyes squeezed shut, pale, sweating, and breathing hard.

John picked him up and put him back in his bed. "Do you need more medicine? I have plenty." Avery shook his head and pushed John away, turning on his side, facing the opposite way to John. John sat on the bed next to him all the same, watching him, just in case.

When John had gone to do something else, he heard a loud noise. An alarm. He ran into the room to see what had happened, and Avery had cut the tag off.  
>"What the fuck?" John fumed, pushing him over. "You're going to get him arrested! They'll be on their way right now, you bloody idiot!" Avery snarled and held the tag in his hands, clearly beaten by it.<p>

"I'm not an animal to be caged or tracked or—" Avery clapped his hands to his head, the alarm triggering more severe headaches, the sound of the alarm mixing with the sensation like an ice pick to the temples unpleasantly like the torture chamber Moriarty had kept him in. "It was an accident. Sort of." He looked like he might be sick, an unhealthy green tinge to his skin. "I had to get the bloody thing off." His eyes rolled backwards and it was as though the blood drained from his face. He fell off the bed backwards, hitting the floor with a thud, just as Sergeant Donovan and some other officers entered, cuffs in hand. Avery sat up and threw a punch at her, missing by miles as his fever and the fading headache fouled up his sense of distance, and it only served to knock him off-balance, falling onto the police's grasp. Of course, Avery being who he was, tried to physically fight the officers, earning himself a punch to the stomach, which added a violent coughing fit to the mix of pains Avery was suffering..

Donovan managed to get the cuffs on him. "Resisting arrest, too?" She shot a look at John. "I don't know what you see in him, I really don't." The other officers took Avery downstairs, but John heard a confused inquiry from the staircase and knew that Sherlock had taken control again. Donovan turned to John as she took out a notebook for an incident report. "Told you he was trouble," she said as she fished for her pen. "What is it with you sticking with him? Stockholm Syndrome? 'Cause you know he's never going to care back. He can't." She saw the look of anger in John's eyes and decided to get back to her policework. "Now what exactly just happened? I have to make an official report, you know."

"He has a split personality, as you know. He's in his violent state, but he just wanted the freedom. He has no idea how severe the consequences of his actions actually are. No. He does, but he just doesn't care." Donovan noted everything down whilst the other officers took Avery away.  
>"He'll be in until Sherlock comes back. Give me his medication, fill out this form." John did, and when everyone had left, he went to see Mrs Hudson.<p>

"They took him. He's in a cell." Mrs Hudson cried into a tissue dramatically. "Calm down. He'll be back soon. I think. I don't know what's going on."

_They came for him because Avery cut the tag off._

_-John_

"Mycroft will help him, Mrs Hudson."

_No need to be so melodramatic.  
>Mycroft<em>

_His increasingly erratic behaviour is growing harder to deal with.  
>Mycroft<em>

On the way to the station, Sherlock alternated with Avery every two or three minutes. He felt violently ill, and was shaking from fever-chills as he stared out the window. The cuffs chafed, and his wrists were soon very sore. It didn't help that Avery was trying to surreptitiously squirm out of them every time he was in control. They arrived at the station, where he was booked in and put into a cell. The activity in the station was overloading him, considering he was sensitive anyway at present. Too much sensory input was painful, and soon Lestrade added to it.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"Aver—"

"Jesus, Sherlock, it doesn't matter. It's still you, as far as the law is concerned." He ran his hand through his hair. "He's going to land you in prison, and there won't be anything I can do. Your trial for the assault is day after tomorrow, and this isn't going to look good. Now you need to find a way to get him under control or there'll be hell to pay, and not from me."

Sherlock weakly nodded, grabbing onto the bars for support as his inner ear wanted him to vomit. Lestrade gave him a look that he knew would tell Sherlock _I've risked my job and even prison time to protect you. If they find out I covered for a serial killer, I'll never work again._ Sherlock nodded and made his way to the bed, where he lay, shivering and coughing—his various cold medications had run out and he felt miserable. He covered his eyes with his arm and tried to pass the time by sleeping. He could tell that his fever was back up, returning with a vengeance, but at present there was nothing he could do.

John was allowed to visit Sherlock on the condition that he didn't kick up a fuss. He took all the medicine that Sherlock would need and left in a car with Mycroft. Mycroft went to speak to the head office whilst John visited him.

"Take these, you'll be given them twice a day. They're not letting you out until the trial. Well, depending on the sentence." Sherlock sighed and put his head on the table. "I'm sorry. I brought the books you wanted. They've checked everything I've brought in. I can't even stay long." Sherlock looked up, pleadingly. "Mycroft is talking to them, that's all he can do. I have ten minutes. Say what you need to say."

Sherlock was shaking with fever, his eyes blurred. "Not sure what there is to say. I'm miserable, John. Between what my brain is doing to me and what the rest of my body's suffering, it's hard to—" He broke off into coughing. "Minor hallucinations," he muttered. "Not just olfactory, Liam and Avery. Like liquid trickling down my arms. I know it's not real, so I'm fine, but if my fever's high enough to cause hallucinations…" Sherlock coughed again and wiped his nose on the tissue that was provided. He blinked feverishly, staring at John for two or so minutes in silence. "Ngdid you want to ask me something? Since…you know. I might not be home for quite some time."

"Do you need anything else?" John tapped on the table, trying to calm himself down as he could feel tears starting. Sherlock gingerly reached a hand over the table, his arm shaking violently. "I don't want you to stay in here. I need you to be around, even if you're not okay. It's difficult for you to understand, I know. If they do keep you in, I'll be here every time they allow me to see you until you get out, if you want that." Sherlock sighed and looked at him shakily, with a small nod. "Okay. They're going to make me leave soon. I'll miss you."

"It's only for the afternoon, plus tomorrow and the next morning, I'm sure," Sherlock said, weakly smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Mycroft will find a way. Mycroft always finds a way." He bit his lip, knowing that John wanted—no, needed—to hear the words Sherlock couldn't say. He grabbed John's hands, which seemed frighteningly cold, though he knew it was because his own were far too warm, and just sat in silence. The sensation of a slow viscous liquid pouring down his arms was getting stronger, and he fought the urge to acknowledge it as a police officer escorted John from the room. "Goodbye, John, I already miss you," followed Liam's voice.

Two hours later, Lestrade sat at his desk, filling in paperwork before turning in for the night. Donovan was on night shift. Lestrade heard what sounded like singing from the detention cells. "What?"

"He's singing," Donovan said. "He's bloody singing." Lestrade rose to go make sure Sherlock was fine, and arrived to see Sherlock laying on the little bed, hallucinations ended as the fever reducer kicked in, but singing the French lullaby to himself.

"Sleep, Sherlock," he was muttering between verses. "It's okay, we'll be home soon, and the nightmares will stop when you get your sleeping pills." It was Liam, trying to comfort Sherlock, and not succeeding very well. Technically, Sherlock was still dominant, but Liam had control of his mouth.

"God," whispered Lestrade, distressed at seeing someone he cared for like a cousin in this state. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Can't sleep. Nightmares." Sherlock rolled onto his back, Liam still humming through him, punctuated by coughs. "Blood. Pain. Screaming."

Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, not sure what to do. It was one thing to have junkies in the cells, because he knew that in a few hours they'd be fine, but not Sherlock. He took out his phone and called John. "Yeah, hey, it's me. He's having nightmares and singing to himself. Is there anything that I can do?"

"You know how I can help."  
>"Well you know that you coming here isn't allowed." John could hear Sherlock muttering in the background, with Donovan calling it 'ridiculous' and calling him a 'psycho'.<br>"Come on Greg. He's not well enough to be there."  
>"I know. But it's the law. This is my job, you know."<br>"Your job is more important than a man's health? He could die in there, he's seriously unwell. He needs round the clock medical attention."  
>"Fine. But I swear to you, anything else, he's in. He still has to go to the trial, it's not anything he's getting out of. I'll come in a car with him, make sure he's at the trial on Thursday." The line dropped and John was left waiting for him to come home.<p>

Sherlock still couldn't sleep. The feeling of being covered in a thick liquid was too strong to be ignored. His eyes snapped open in time to see the brickwork oozing with blood. Donovan's mocking comments distorted to insane laughter, and Sherlock felt the blood fall onto his face. He couldn't help it—once the taste touched his lips, there was a sexual reaction and he began pressing himself to the wall, slathering himself in it, hating himself for his own uncontrollable reaction.

This went on for several minutes, until his hallucination changed. "Get them off!" Giant ants were crawling up his arms, biting their way through his skin. "Get them the hell off!" But of course, there wasn't anything there, and so the officers just stood and watched. The ants were up to his neck and he held his head up as if trying to swim above the swarm that burst into dozens more every time he managed to destroy one. Lestrade had the key, and opened the cell just in time to catch Sherlock clawing at his throat as the hallucinations worked their way down his oesophagus. He screamed as Lestrade reached our, falling to the floor unconscious.

"Jesus Christ," muttered Lestrade. "Somebody get a thermometer over here!" A man came with the first aid kit, handing the thermometer to the DI. "39.5," Lestrade muttered. "God. Hang on, Sherlock. I'm taking you back to Baker Street. Under house arrest." He lifted the fever-stricken Holmes and took him to his squad car, knowing that yet again, he was risking his job for this strange man.

When Sherlock was brought home, he stumbled in clinging on to Lestrade. "Come on, bed." John picked him up, thanked Greg, and then he left. Sherlock tore off his clothes and got into bed naked, because his temperature was far too hot. John got a brainwave.

He ran him a lukewarm bath to cool him down, after opening all of the windows and replacing the quilts on his bed with light blankets. Sherlock was rolling around in the bath, as if it were blood he was soaking in. "Sherlock, come on." John picked him up and wrapped a towel around him. He took Sherlock to his room and put him under the thin blankets. "Have some of this. You'll feel better." He shoved a spoon of medicine in his mouth.

Sherlock swallowed, his other minds utterly silent for the time being. The liquid did nothing to dispel his hallucinations, as it was just the right viscosity to simulate blood. His shuddering breathing was sharp as he fought off another coughing fit. "Sofa," he mumbled. He wanted to be in the living room rather than his bedroom for reasons unknown to even him. So John moved him gingerly to the living room and decided to watch telly for a while. Sherlock's shaking eased as the flu medicine started to work, and he drifted off again.

Sherlock opened his eyes weakly. He was on the sofa, probably put there an hour or two before. _High fever. Congestion. Aches. Flu._ "Mngh," he moaned, looking around. Within seconds, John was standing over him. "How long…have I been dreaming?" He blinked slowly, eyelids burning the sensitive tissue beneath. "Nightmare." He tried to shift, but the blanket slid off and he started shivering. "Dreamed Moriarty had you. Raped you. Prisoner exchange. Raped me. Then…drugs? Something, then it's like there were two of me. Split personality. A murderer. Four victims. 'N it hurt when they…they tried to shock it out of me." He winced at the memory. "Then we were in France. There was blood everywhere. You were screaming and I was drinking your blood like…like a vampire." His brow furrowed, upset. "Then I was back on the drugs, like when I was just out of University. And you didn't notice, why didn't you notice?" Sherlock coughed horribly, the fluid in his lungs causing him to gasp with every breath. "'N then there was a room. Moriarty, torture chamber or something. 'N you got shot. Mycroft got shot. Other personality killed again. You hit me. Then I got raped again, and there was blood everywhere. Father was dying and he…told me. He cared. He _never_ cared. And the hospital, that's right, you were in hospital. We got a cat. Natalia was back. I think after that, I was in a mental hospital. Padded cell." He started coughing again, eyes barely open, and if it hadn't been for the coughing, he would have drifted off. "I think I was possessed or some nonsense like that. The split personality. Violent thoughts. I just wanted to die." He chuckle-coughed. "Not like me at all." Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled by the memories which, in his feverish state, seemed like a horrible nightmare. "Had a half-sister. You killed Moriarty. And Moran. Father died. Went to his funeral. In France. Then I was suddenly in jail. Attacked someone or something." He sighed, utterly exhausted, starting to drift off to sleep. "So vivid. Almost real. 'Cept it couldn't have been. Could it?" He said the last words as if it had only just occurred to him that what he was thinking of were actual memories and not the nightmare of a mind at the wrong temperature. He coughed again, painfully, gasping for air. _Pneumonia?_

Sherlock stared at him, waiting for an answer. "It was real. You haven't been yourself in a while. I mean, _just_ you. It's always been you hearing voices, or not you at all." Sherlock shook his head, disbelieving. "It's true. You have a trial on thursday. Now that you're you, do you have any idea of what is wrong with you? You've not been ill long enough, so none of us can tell, not even me." Sherlock stayed quiet, his eyes moving around the room, glinting in the light from the streetlamps. "Please. It could be very important."

_It was real_. Those three words were horrible, causing everything to come flooding back. "Don't know what you mean." His voice was barely articulate enough for John to make out what he was saying. "Mentally? Physically?" Sherlock shivered and grabbed at the blanket, weak and disorientated. "Dissociative I…identity Disorder. Possible undifferentiated schizoph…schizophrenia. Not a psychiatrist. Hard to diagnose." Another terrible coughing fit struck, and despite his weakness, he sat up, hacking, his cough loosened but not enough to cough anything up. He had goose pimples as the fit ended, and he fell back into the sofa. "Maybe flu. Cough started…a week ago? Day of his death. Father's. Pneumonia possible. 'M so tired." He rolled over, facing the wall, too exhausted to even put the blanket back around himself.

"I'm taking you to the hospital." John muttered, ringing an ambulance. The paramedics arrived, took one look at him and mumbled to each other.  
>"Doctor Watson, we're going to take him in."<br>"He has a trial at court on Thursday. We need him to be back by then. I know it's difficult but, it's the law."  
>"We'll make an excuse for him. He needs serious medical attention."<p>

After numerous phone calls from Greg, John was outside the hospital, smoking, due to stress.

_He has to come to the trial and you KNOW it._

_-GL_

John sighed and turned his phone off. The doctors had diagnosed Sherlock with pneumonia and said he was going to be in for at least a week. He was going to miss the trial, and probably going to end up in prison unless the doctors made a good excuse for him. For once, John couldn't see a way out of this problem.

**Sherlock's blog**

Pneumonia. Court day after tomorrow. Either I skip my own trial or I leave hospital early. Simple choice. Can't afford to miss court. I feel awful. Breathing can wait. Burning up but shivering. Have to sleep. Can't let Avery get off without trial. Le sang versé des innocents doit être expié. Can't let myself become more a criminal. To hell with health. I'm going to trial.

"I…have to go," Sherlock gasped. "Day after tomorrow. Fast-acting…antibiotics." His nostrils flared as he registered the smell from John's coat, but for once, Avery was silent, though Sherlock did feel a trickle in the back of his mind. "Don't you dare smoke. Don't you dare put anything in you that isn't medically necessary as deemed by either Dr. Thompson, Dr. Wilson, or—" He took a gigantic gulp of air, which only served to trigger another bout of violent coughing. "Know it's a bit hypocritical. But for God's sakes, John. I've quit. You've made Avery quit, or tried. 'S your turn."

There were guards posted outside the room, as a compromise from Lestrade until they figured out how he'd get to trial. "Have to go. Clear my name. Again. Better than falling. Safer. Truer. Lasts longer. T'hell with breathing. Breathing's boring." He winced and gasped again. "Requires concentration right now." The room was spinning, and he genuinely felt as though he were on the ceiling and about to fall out of the bed. He gripped the railing weakly, and to his vision the reason for his hands slipping was that they were soaked in blood. "Je vais tomber. Don't want to fall. Mes mains sont glissantes à cause du sang. Too slippery. Je ne peux pas tenir le coup. I'm going to fall." His head fell back onto the pillow as he went into an uneasy sleep, fever reduced but still present.

"I'm sorry sir, but it would be against mine and Doctor Watson's nature to let such a sick man out. He can't even walk across the room without hallucinations. You will have to reschedule." Lestrade pouted and stormed out of the room.  
>"He has to go. But he's really ill, I don't know if thursday is the best day for him." The nurse who had been speaking to Greg nodded and put a cold flannel on Sherlock's head.<br>"Well, he'll rearrange it. Probably for the monday. It's always as soon as possible with them." She smiled and left the room, leaving John to tend to Sherlock.

When Lestrade returned, he had a piece of paper in his hand.  
>"Here. Monday. Latest I can do, okay?" He walked out as quickly as he'd turned up.<br>"Right." John looked at the piece of paper, which was just a note from the judge reminding him that attendance is compulsory, and he must turn up on monday.

Three hours had passed in near-silence, Sherlock sleeping and the doctors doing their best. He was on an IV antibiotic and fever reducer, which, while helping, didn't dispel the fever (or the hallucinations of his combination physical/mental illness) entirely. "Father?" Sherlock's eyes were barely open, but they were looking directly at a spot to the right of the foot of his bed. "You're dead," he gasped. The apparition was shushing Sherlock and beckoning him, glowing like Obi-Wan Kenobi. "Can't go with you. Have court Monday." Sherlock's pulse had dropped to 47 beats per minute quite suddenly. "Don't touch me." A swarm of nurses came in, as the pulse detector had alarmed them that his pulse was now 44. "Ngggh," he said, his head falling back and his eyes rolling. "Things to do. Can't go. Fiche-moi la paix." His gasping was painful to listen to now, moist but the fluid stubbornly stuck in his lungs, and the nurses thrust a needle into the IV, which soon sped his heart back to an acceptable 62 beats per minute. He was coughing again, and this time managed to cough up dark brown sputum (conveniently, the nurses had a petri dish ready for collecting it for analysis), thick as treacle.

John was asked to stay outside whilst the nurses tended to him.

_You should be here, he needs you._

_-John_

It was somewhat surprising to him that Mycroft had not been in the hospital this whole time, even though Lestrade had notified him. He'd been there for everything else, and now he was distant.

_Send him my love._

_-MH_

John snarled and shoved his phone away. Lestrade was walking down the corridor with a bunch of flowers, look grey in the face.  
>"Hello, John. Sorry about being so full on before. I had no idea how ill he was."<p>

John overheard the doctors. "It's a resistant strain. We need to switch antibiotics." One of them saw John and quickly added "But don't worry, Dr. Watson. For any form of bacterial pneumonia, the survival rate is above 80% and those that usually die are the very young or the very old. He'll be fine."

Sherlock was hooked into oxygen tubes again, breathing more steady. His fever had gone down tremendously, now at 37.3, and when he opened his eyes, he realized that, for the moment at least, he wasn't hallucinating. "John?" He looked around the room, but couldn't see John. _Must be outside. Hope he's not smoking again. Needs to quit. _ There was a tickle in his mind, and he wasn't sure if it was Avery, Liam, or both, but he knew they were both there. The fever seemed to have knocked them out just as badly as it had him, but right now he was more or less himself.

"Wherar JohnanMycrof?" He smacked his lips which were dry from breathing through his mouth. There was a cup of water on the little table by his bed and he made to grab it, but only succeeded in knocking it over. Resigned to his current situation, he sat back in the bed just as John and Lestrade entered.

The nurses gave him more water before leaving. Lestrade put the flowers in the vase next to him, before nodding at John and leaving.  
>"Mycroft sends his love." John snarled. "I don't know why he isn't here. He knows you're ill." Sherlock mumbled something and turned over, it sounded almost like he was crying.<p>

Hours later, and he still wasn't looking any better. He was just about speaking in full sentences, but that was about that. He wouldn't eat, and the most he'd drink was half a glass of water. Mycroft didn't turn up, but did call occasionally. John left the room when he did.

Several more hours passed when Sherlock opened his eyes again, and saw, standing before him, Moriarty. He was dressed as a nurse, putting something into Sherlock's arm rather than the IV. He grinned and put his finger to his lip. Sherlock wasn't sure what was going on—he felt a change with whatever it was in his system, but there was no way it could be Moriarty in front of him. He rolled out of bed, falling to the ground with an unpleasant thud, and stood to chase the apparition. He yanked the IV drip from his arm and wobbily staggered to the door, past the sleeping John. "Ngstop," he mumbled, feeling the world spinning and his own mind start to go into a pointless blind panic, something he'd only felt three times, under the influence of the HOUND drug. He managed to get down the hallway and get completely lost in the darkened cardiac unit. The walls started to close in. He knew it was a hallucination—couldn't be anything else—but that didn't stop uncharacteristic claustrophobia from hitting. He meandered out of the hallway before finding himself in the lavatory which was undergoing renovations.

"Hello, Sherlock," echoed Moriarty's voice. Sherlock looked around, but there was no source to the voice. "Nice to see you again." Sherlock swayed and grabbed onto the wall—his inner ear had no idea which way was up and it was almost impossible to stand. "Pneumonia, what a shame. I'm not responsible for your troubles now. Pity. Seems like Mother Nature needs reminding who owns you." Sherlock fought the urge to scream in terror at the voice that seemed to be coming from nowhere. He knew the best thing to do was to run. But he couldn't. He was quite literally paralysed with fear. "I own you, Sherlock." There was still no direction to the voice, until suddenly it came from directly behind him, as if whispered into his neck. "And no one can touch my property." Every single hair on Sherlock's body stood up. "No one except me." He felt something go gently down his spine, from his atlas vertebra down to his coccyx. He mustered the strength to turn around, but in doing so, lost his balance and fell down, unable to get up. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. I'll be seeing you again very soon." The voice was directionless again, just as Sherlock blacked out, surrounded by builder's dust and broken bits of tile.

"What do you mean he's not here?" John screamed at one of the nurses.  
>"We came in to check on him last night, and he was gone."<br>"What the fuck?" John had gone home to shower and sleep, only for a few hours, last night.

He repeatedly called Sherlock's mobile, before calling Mycroft.  
>"He's gone from the hospital. He was far too ill to walk. Somebody's taken him."<br>"I'm on my way, Watson. Calm down. I'm going to try and contact him."

_You didn't solve your little problem, sweetie! Come and play. - M Xxx_

John felt his blood run cold. When Mycroft arrived, he showed him the text. His expression fell blank.  
>"Right." He coughed.<p>

"We have people out looking for Sherlock. According to the cameras and the security guard, no one of his description has left the hospital all night. He's still here. We don't know where. The internal cameras have been disabled." Mycroft put his hand on John's shoulder. "I'm going to join the search myself. You keep trying him."

Sherlock didn't know how long he'd been on the cold tiled floor, Moriarty's voice taunting him repeatedly. His voice was distorted as if by speakers, coming from nowhere but everywhere, and the drugs in Sherlock's system made them reverb along with the blinding swirling thoughts were in his mind like a psychological smoothie. The toilet gurgled, making him jump, which in turn made him cough. He'd been off all of his medication for several hours, and not only had his fever raged back, but his other minds were present as well, threatening to overwhelm him. And he was terrified.

First, Moriarty had spoken about how it was like the zoo all over again. Then he'd gone on to promise Sherlock that no matter where he was, he would never ever be safe. Sherlock had managed to stand up and walk for a few steps before collapsing into a pile of rubble which had cut his face and arms. The dust aggravated his lungs and he was finding it excruciating to breathe as the blood started to turn the tiling crimson. "There once was a great detective, whose sanity was subjective. His mind ended split, no doubt about it, poor Sherlock was really defective." Sherlock's fever spiked and he started to seize. His body tensed and his eyes rolled, mouth starting to foam.

At that moment, the door burst open and Mycroft came in, sweating. He'd been running around the hospital for an hour and a half looking for his lost brother. He saw Sherlock and ran to him instantly, sitting with him through the seizure. "You'll be fine. I promise." The horrible convulsions lasted three agonizing minutes, but as soon as it faded and Sherlock blacked out, he lifted Sherlock from the floor.

He came into the ER, and promptly told the nurses that this was the missing patient and that he'd had a seizure in the lavatory. He left out the bit about Moriarty. Mycroft picked up his phone and dialled John's number. "I've found him. He's in the ER."

John ran to the ER, and Sherlock looked him, his face bleeding. "He had a seizure, but it was definitely caused by something… You know what I mean." John swallowed and nodded at Mycroft.  
>"Yes." He reached a hand over to Sherlock's face, and that moment his eyes snapped open, and he let out a small shriek. John jumped back, and Mycroft tried to calm him, whilst nurses came over and put him onto a stretcher.<p>

When Sherlock was speaking again, he explain to John what had happened, more matter of fact than usual. Almost like he didn't believe that it had happened. Mycroft sat quietly in the thinking post in a chair in the corner of the room.

"A most peculiar delusion, you have to admit," Sherlock finished. He raised an eyebrow. The nurses were somewhat confused—his fever was high enough that he shouldn't be capable of coherent thought at all, let alone tell someone about a traumatic experience so rationally. Something was wrong. And they were right. He started seizing again, from the fever and whatever Moriarty had injected him with, grunting helplessly. Mycroft excused himself before Sherlock lost consciousness. The nurses swarmed, one of them shouting for an ice bath immediately, and Sherlock was taken from the room. He was brought in with a fresh gown, still unconscious. John sat with him until his eyes opened several hours later and he weakly spoke. "Hello, John." It was Liam's voice. "I don't feel good."

Mycroft came in, barely shaven and with dark circles under his eyes. There was a small tinge of alcohol on his breath and it was clear he was completely exhausted, and, as John could barely make out, he'd been crying. He looked at Sherlock and whispered to John to speak to him in private. "All my life, I've looked out for him, protected him. He's the only thing I've ever really cared for. He's always needed it; he's always been a bit…untameable. I was the one who brought him back from Europe after he was arrested in Geneva for drug use. I was the one who kept Father from lashing out at him when he dropped out of university, who took him to rehab when he was injecting nightly and it was tearing his life to shreds. I helped him turn his hobby of deduction into a workable profession. I encouraged him to find a flatmate when I saw that he was starting to drift again. I gave him cases when the danger of returning to his old habits out of boredom was far too real. I thought he was fine with you, and I saw him change into something more stable, more human under your influence. He became something. He was almost centred. Almost right. Less transient." He ran one hand through his hair. "With all that's happened in the last four months, I don't know if I'll have him in five years, whether sane or otherwise. If things don't improve for him quickly, I'm almost certain he won't live to my age. I can't lose him, John." He put his hand on John's shoulder imploringly. "You need to look after him in ways I can't. We—our mother and I—the only thing keeping our family together is looking after him. It's always been that way, ever since Mother came back after I'd found a suicide note he'd written and discarded. He was eight. Too young to be thinking like that. Father was brutal to him and it…Sherlock doesn't know I found the note. He doesn't realise that he's the…the centre of the family fabric." He was starting to grow emotional, and John found it unsettling. "One guardian angel has never been enough to keep him in check."

Mycroft started to cry, which was something John thought that he would never see. He didn't sob, instead tears rolled down his cheeks whilst he stood silently. John reached out an arm to hug him, and he didn't pull away. This made John worry, Mycroft was acting so out of character, due to fear. After Mycroft had composed himself, he nodded and walked back into the room.

Avery was dominant when they spoke to him, and he grimaced, muttering about cigarettes and sex whilst nurses gave him more medicine. When they'd left, he looked at Mycroft, but didn't say anything. He looked worried, even for Avery.

"Mycroft, go home and rest. I can cope here. Come back tomorrow. You need sleep." Mycroft nodded, and left. It was rare for Mycroft to take orders from anybody, especially John. Avery stayed quiet and watched him leave.

"Great, now he's having issues." Avery rolled his eyes, clearly unsympathetic towards Mycroft. "And as for you, I thought you'd have stayed to make sure you finished the job properly. You know what I'm talking about. Still," he said with a smile that could only be called evil, "At least it means I have a purpose again." He started hacking again, and while what came up was still dark, it was far lighter than last time and there was far more of it. "At this rate, I'm not going to have any lungs worth holding smoke," he muttered. "God, I'm bored." He threw his head back onto the elevated pillows. He very pointedly did not move to let John onto the bed, even if the nurses had let him try. "You really fucked up, John. Only did a half-assed job. People quit keeping their eyes out because they thought he was dead, and why bother looking for a corpse?" He glared at John. "Maybe I need to teach you some alternate methods, since you've obviously forgotten how to use a gun."

"Piss off. I know full well how to use a gun. I trained for five years. We just need to remember that Moriarty doesn't die when you shoot him in the head. Whatever that means." Avery nodded and patted the space on the bed next to him. John sat and Avery tried to hug him. It was difficult for John to reciprocate, as he was still annoyed at him for the remark about him not being able to use a gun.

Avery explained the ordeal as he saw it, telling him about how he wanted to rip his throat out and so on. John nodded and agreed quietly, knowing that Sherlock would be disproving if he went looking for Moriarty again. "So, he's in the hospital." John mumbled, and Avery nodded, gravely.

"Yup. And I can't do a damn thing about it. For all I know, he's fucking up my meds, making me worse. I just want to get my hands on him. And my knife." He coughed again, and a large glob of brown mucus came out. Avery grimaced and spat it into the trash. "Getting lighter," he said. "That's good at least." He shook his head slightly. "Fucking Liam won't shut up. He's humming. And I can't hear Sherlock. Not sure why." He started shaking. "Damn, here it goes ag—" He tensed up again, not quite to the level of seizure he'd had earlier, but it was enough to cause the nurses to swarm around and shoo John from the bed, medical instruments beeping out alarms. When he calmed, he was gasping, which triggered yet another coughing fit. "J-John," came Liam's frightened voice as he reached for John's hand. "Am I dying?" There were tears in his eyes.

"No you're not. You're going to be just fine. You're going to be sick for a while but it's going to get better. I promise." Liam sniffed and nodded whilst the nurses plunged more needles into him. "I'm not leaving, either. Mycroft has people outside the room checking nurses and doctors ID as they come in, so the monsters can't get you." Liam whimpered and nodded, again.

When Mycroft returned hours later, he looked better than he had before.  
>"I came to drop off some books. He's going to be here until monday. There are clothes in this bag, and his medications are all covered. I'll be on the end of the phone, and the security has been tightened." He nodded and left as quickly as he had arrived, leaving John with an armful of books and a bag on his arm.<p>

Liam reached for his retreating brother. "No, My, come back." But, of course, Mycroft had left. Liam frowned. "Why isn't he staying? Is he ashamed?" Liam reached over and swivelled the eating tray in front of him before taking out some paper and his crayons. "I wish I had my violin. I want to play it. But colouring will do, I suppose." He hummed quietly, a song John hadn't heard, as he started to draw. However, his drawing was far less sophisticated than even Liam normally drew. No lines, just semi-abstract areas of colour. John smiled when he realized Liam was drawing the field in France.

Natalia came into the room and quickly registered that Liam was still dominant. She smiled sadly, taking note of the readouts which confirmed that he was quite ill indeed. "Natalia!" Liam burst into a grin and it was like the clouds had parted. She came over and he reached out his arms to hug her.

"Hello, sweetheart," she said as she hugged him back. "Look what I got you." She held up a plush parrot and Liam clapped excitedly. "I thought you'd like it." She kissed his forehead, and noticed his fever was still far too high. She turned to John. "The doctors tell me he'll be here until Monday?" John nodded. "Six days is a long time. But if he had pneumonia, he needs—"

Another coughing fit began, the worst one yet. Liam flushed with the effort, but by the end, he was starting to turn blue, and because he wasn't covering his mouth, flecks of caramel-coloured mucus were flying everywhere, causing Natalia to almost wish she had an umbrella. Finally it ended, and he took a deep breath before frowning at the brown spots on his more primitive than usual drawing. He held it up sadly. "My picture…"

"It's okay, you can do another, can't you?" John took it gingerly and put it in the bin, and then got him a tissue. "Cover your mouth when you cough, love." Liam nodded and started drawing again.

Natalia stayed for a while, talking to Liam, and giving him water. John spoke to Mycroft on the phone outside the room, as he promised to check up on him hourly.  
>"Make sure he takes his medication. Make sure he eats and drinks. Make sure he's got something to do."<br>"Right, Mycroft. I _am _a doctor." John groaned.

"Yes, and my brother is incredibly stubborn," Mycroft retorted. "Take good care of him. Remember what I said." He hung up. Liam and Natalia were drawing together, and John realized that for such a wild woman, her maternal instincts were near-flawless.

"Do you want the light blue one or the dark blue one?" She held each of them up. Liam tilted his head, thinking.

"Um….the dark blue." Natalia handed it to him and he scribbled over the paper—he was drawing a seascape. "Thank you for visiting me, Natalia. It makes me happier to know I do have friends." He said it quietly, with a hint of sadness. "I don't want anything to happen to you. When I had to leave you, I didn't know if you were still alive and then Victor died and he was my friend, too. And now John's always so sad. He pretends he's not, but I can tell. I just want the people I love to be happy and healthy." A tear rolled down his cheek and he took Natalia's hand. "Your job is dangerous and I know that's why you like it, but I don't want you to get hurt. And I don't want John to hurt. He's hurting so much and I know I can't help him." He sniffled. Natalia reached over and pulled his head to her chest.

"Shhh, darling, it's going to be fine." She rocked him back and forth gently for several minutes, during which Liam cried softly into her. She felt his temperature rise again, flushing from the crying and a sudden spike in his fever. Liam squirmed, half-delirious with fever and exhaustion. He leaned back and started clawing at his arms, gentle scratching at first, but soon he was almost endangering himself. "Get them out." He seemed desperate as his scratching started to break the skin. "Worms. Get them out of me, please get them out."

"Liam, Liam, stop." John grabbed his hands and Liam looked up at him, silently. "Come on dear, I think it's time you had a cold flannel." Liam groaned, he didn't like having cold things on him, and as it brushed up his arms he grimaced and squirmed. He did feel better afterwards, though, as he began drawing again.

Natalia left, placing a kiss on Liam's head and one on John's cheek. Liam stopped drawing and sighed, asking John to put a film on. He did, and then climbed in the bed with him. "Go to sleep. It's getting late." Liam snuffled and nodded, and then dropped off to sleep.

Liam felt John leave the bed, thinking he was asleep. He was back again almost instantly and Liam didn't even open his eyes as he nuzzled into him, placing his head against his chest, sighing contentedly. Just as he realised John's smell was wrong, a hand grabbed his bum and squeezed playfully while the rest of the other body pressed himself close with clear sexual intent. Liam snapped awake and stared at his bedmate in shock before it finally sank in that this was Moriarty and not John at all. He screamed and flung himself from the bed, falling to the floor and knocking his head against the machines, adding a daze to his terror. By the time the nurses arrived, Moriarty was long gone. Every time one of the nurses tried to physically help, he would kick at them, screaming for them to get away.

John returned from the lavatory to hear what was clearly still Liam physically fighting the nurses, shouting almost incomprehensibly about how the Monsters had him in their web and nothing was safe. Liam caught sight of John and in his mind he was seeing Moran in the disguise in which he'd violated Sherlock rather than seeing his friend. "Monster! Monster!" A team of nurses was holding him still, not an easy feat considering his adrenaline-fuelled strength. A different nurse approached with a syringe full of sedative, which only made things worse, and Liam dissolved into a full-out hysteria, fighting with every ounce of strength. John watched as Liam screamed so hard his voice snapped. Once they sedated him and placed him back in the bed, Liam was actually slightly conscious, weakly sobbing, tears streaming down his face, too sedated to speak and voice too damaged anyway.

When Liam came round from his dazed period, he heard John on the phone. "I don't give a fuck, Mycroft. He is still in this hospital and your security did _NOTHING_." He heard muffled voices from the other end of the phone. "Do what you said you were going to do. I want him moved to a private hospital. Somewhere Moriarty can't get in." John put the phone down and returned to the room.  
>"Hello, Liam. We're moving you to a private hospital." Liam nodded and buried his face in the pillows.<p>

"Please don't shout." Liam's voice was somewhat slurred from the sedative and croaky from his earlier screaming. "Don't shout. And don't use his name, please." It was another hour before all the arrangements had been made. Sherlock was going to be airlifted to a private hospital near Leicester that the Secret Service had used for persons of special interest. Mycroft came in just as the prep was completed. Liam didn't have the strength to walk himself to the helicopter, so they'd laid him out on a special stretcher for the journey. He squirmed as they'd had to strap him in, but he was still able to hold John's hand. "I don't like this," he whispered. John noticed his fever had risen again, Liam's hand burning up, though the mucus he'd coughed up was getting lighter and lighter, now the colour of parchment, though still quite thick.

Mycroft took Liam's other hand. "I've negotiated my way into giving him the top-security rooms typically given for ailing heads of state. I owe about three dozen favours to people in high places." The look on his face continued his thought: But it is more than worth it to know you are safe.

Liam tensed dangerously as they got him into the copter, a mild fever-seizure taking him again, and when he came out of it, Liam was buried deep, like Sherlock, afraid and withdrawn. Avery was in charge now. "Finally getting the VIP treatment I deserve," he said, letting go of Mycroft's hand. "About fucking time."

John was originally going to be taken by car, but Avery demanded that he was by his side. John had to sit by him the whole time, holding his hand, listening to his ideas to get rid of his illness. His usual answer. Sex. John ignored him and listened to Mycroft who was also sitting next to him.

When they arrived, they were taken straight to a large room with a wide screen television and hundreds of films. Avery yawned and was carried into the bed. He pushed the nurses off him and rolled over. Mycroft nodded and walked out, leaving John to deal with him.

"Boring films. Probably." Avery tilted his head, squinting at one in particular. "Actually, never mind. The Dark Knight. Yeah, let's—" He took a gurgling breath followed by coughing up more cream-coloured mucus that was barely considered a liquid. "Damn. Can I get a little heat in here? Fucking freezing." He pulled his blanket up around him, shivering. "Then again, insulation in combination with a radiant heat source works the best," he said, a mischievous eye in John's direction.

It was clear that the antibiotics were working, the mucus getting lighter every time and his fever no longer raging, just present. It would still be a few days before he'd be recovered enough to go to trial, but theoretically the timing would work out. Another week before he'd recover completely, but he seemed far better than he was even in the other hospital. Avery's theory that Moriarty had been altering his medicine seemed to have been correct after all.

From then on, his recovery was easy. The personality changes happened about four times a day, usually leaving Sherlock in control.

On the day before the trial, Mycroft came to visit them, leaving Sherlock with a new suit and a personal hairdresser. John sat on a seat in the corner, reading while he got a haircut and spoke to the hairdresser.

Later on, Sherlock kept trying to ask John something. "What? Please, go on."

Sherlock broke out of his subthought about how pampered the people who usually stayed in this hospital were. It was more like a luxury hotel, really, with a salon and a spa inside. Doctor Hussey had come to give him a pre-trial exam to see if he was fit enough to stand. Sherlock looked at John and swallowed. "Why do you stay? Why do you allow this relationship to continue? I can't control myself. You know it. I'm going to end up hurting you badly if not killing you because of this…this whatever it is that's happ—" He sat up slightly, the look of realization crossing his face followed by one of pain. "I know what it is, John. I know what's happening to me." Sherlock's eyes were wide with fear and realization, and soon turned to look at their guest, Doctor Hussey. Suddenly Sherlock looked at him accusingly. "You know what this is," he said. "You know what's happened to me." Hussey looked confused. "Oh, don't pretend you don't. I think Avery on his own I could have handled, or Avery and Liam. The change in personalities. I could have adapted. But then your experimental neurosurgery came along and I was just desperate enough to take it. That's when the hallucinations started. That's when I started losing myself." Hussey came over to put his hand on Sherlock's, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and began digging his fingernails in. "This is schizophrenia. You did this. You and your machine." Hussey winced as Sherlock broke the skin, just a little. "I don't know how, and I don't know why, but I do know you're responsible."

"It's only three months. Schizophrenia is a bit of an over-reaction, a self-diagnosis." He wormed his arm free.

"Pre-schizophrenic then. But many of the symptoms are there. And you've done this to me. You. I trusted you with my secrets, my innermost demons and you've—you've given them what they needed to plague me constantly. You might call it paranoia. I call it a deduction."

John stayed quiet, not wanting to get involved, as anything he said could be wrong. Sherlock turned his head to him and shot him a look that meant he wanted his input. John looked up at Hussey and nodded in agreement to Sherlock's accusation. Hussey swallowed and stood up. "You need to find another doctor." and he walked out.

Mycroft came in a few hours later, asking them a few questions. "So, we're finding you another psychiatrist. What outcome do you want, Sherlock? You need to be realistic." John decided to go for a walk round the grounds, as it had a large garden which they hadn't been in yet. He really didn't want to get involved.

"I want stability, Mycroft. I want these hallucinations to go away. I want to be myself, whole. And don't say that's unrealistic because you and I both know I found something that worked." Sherlock was snapping, but then he took a deep breath. "I just want…my mind again." He was desperate, and Mycroft could tell just how desperate he was—far more than anyone else could tell. "I _need_ to be right again." Mycroft nodded sadly and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before he rose and left.

Mycroft approached John. "I realize this must be hard, to care for him like this. I am aware that you have been effectively unemployed for the last few months, and I am aware that looking after my brother is a full-time job. Therefore, I only think it fair that you're compensated, proportionally, for your trouble." He handed John a cheque for £75000. "Would you prefer to be paid the same amount quarterly or £25000 monthly?"

John was taken aback. "T-thank you but, I don't want it. I look after him because I care about him. Nothing else." Mycroft gave him his usual look and smirked.  
>"I'll put it straight in the bank." and he walked off.<p>

When John returned to the room, Sherlock was reading quietly in bed. "Mycroft wants to pay me." John stated as he walked into the room. Sherlock looked up and nodded, saying that he'd suggested it.  
>"I don't want it. I'm looking after you, though it might not be well, because I love and care about you. Before you were my boyfriend, you were my friend, and no matter what you always will be. Friends look after each other."<p>

Sherlock weakly smiled. "Thank you. Though we do rather need the money." He stared distantly for a moment, feeling the tickle at the back of his head that was the start of awareness of the others' thoughts—he couldn't tell who yet, but he could feel that someone was waking up. Sherlock picked up the remote and turned the television to one of the international channels, an American channel, settling on MythBusters and watched in silence. He coughed gently, the last hint of his pneumonia fading—in spite of Moriarty fouling up his medicine, he was making an extraordinarily swift recovery. "Someone's stirring." He scrunched his face up, holding his breath just a little. "What about you, are you fine?"

"I am actually, although I'm worried about court tomorrow." Sherlock sat up with a grunt and sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I know you are, too. Do you have any plans? What are we going to do if it's not you who's dominant?" Sherlock shrugged and looked up at John, checking if he was really okay. "I'm worried. More than that. Scared. I can't see you go to prison."

"I can't go to prison." Sherlock knew that if he did, not only would his mental problems give him enormous trouble, with Avery probably starting fights and Liam trying to make friends with everyone, a good number of the people in the prison he'd be sent to would have been put there by him. Unless he was extradited to France, of course, but then it wouldn't be too much better. "If I'm not in charge, it might actually be for the best. The signs point to the in—" he choked off, the realization once again washing over him of the fact that he wasn't talking about one of his clients but about himself. "The insanity defense. That I didn't know right from wrong at the time I—Avery attacked him." The look on his face let John know that such a claim would be a lie. Avery had known it was immoral to attack someone, he just didn't care, too blinded by hate to think of the consequences. "If it's Avery, he'll put on a show to support that claim, no doubt about it. If it's Liam, I don't know what he'll do." He coughed weakly, more because his body was used to coughing than anything, and lay back to fall asleep.

He was Liam, in the dream. They were in a jungle, like you'd see on a Vietnam War film. Avery was putting black paint on his face, Sherlock was drawing up a strategy, and Liam was left to carve their weapons from bamboo, something he hated. They were fighting a trio of opponents, one for each of them. But this was no gladiatorial combat. There were no rules. It was ugly. This was kill or be killed. Avery's ears pricked up—he was the expert in murder and warfare, and his instincts were honed to a fine point. He raised one hand to silence the others and then plunged into the jungle, bamboo knife razor-sharp and deadly.

Avery ran towards the sound, quiet as a panther and every bit as vicious. A bullet whizzed by his head, though he had heard no gunshot. A suppressor, then. Moran. Avery grinned and licked his lips as he took cover from the all-seeing sniper rifle. He took his time, waiting, listening. He was enjoying the thrill of the hunt, and he loved being the hunted as much as he did being the hunter. More of a challenge to escape than to seek. Avery put the knife between his teeth and he crawled from his hole, cautious, still catlike, the dense foliage scraping his bare chest and back. The grin redoubled as he saw Moran, facing the other direction. He'd not yet heard him. Avery took his knife, relishing the thrill of the kill that he was about to experience before stabbing Moran just behind the left carotid artery and pulling the knife to the other side. There was a very satisfying death-gurgle from the ex-sniper, and Avery looked to the sky in an almost orgasmic release of endorphins.

Avery returned to the others, ecstatic. "One down," he whispered. Sherlock nodded grimly. Liam frowned and looked away. He took a swig of water before choking. "Damn bug," he said. Then they realized there was a fourth person present. Moriarty.

"Oom, that wasn't a bug you just swallowed." Moriarty wore his mock-disappointed face. He held up a button. "Ever heard of remote detonation?" Avery's eyes went wide, his own perfect method of killing Moriarty turned against him, and he didn't even have time to get the word out before Moriarty pressed the button and blood came pouring from his mouth as he keeled over, dead. "Ta-ta," Moriarty said, and ran off. Sherlock ran to Liam, protectively, as if the seven-year-old could be defended from what he'd already seen.

"We have to move," he whispered. Liam nodded tearfully, numbly. The shock of seeing what was essentially himself murdered so viciously in front of him was starting to overwhelm him. Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him through the jungle, plants slapping him in the face and his soldier's helmet rattling around on his head which was too small for it. He was out of breath as Sherlock half-threw him into a gully for protection. "We'll wait here."

It was a long and terrible silence. Liam was curled up next to Sherlock, shaking, trying his best to be strong, but under the circumstances, it was hard. Visions of Avery's death kept coming to his mind, the look of horror as he realized what was going to happen, the strange grunt of pain as the explosive had taken out his organs from the inside, the spurt of blood he dribbled as he fell over, already dead. Liam's hands were shaking.

It was dark when Sherlock stood up again, fairly confident his coat would be enough to keep him safe as camouflage in the night. Liam had drifted off and now Sherlock was going to fetch some berries for the boy. He'd covered Liam with some banana leaves to act as camouflage as well as blanketing and left him in the gully. The moon came over the trees and Sherlock realized he was on the edge of a tiger trap. "Why, hello," came Moriarty's voice from behind him. Sherlock turned to confront him, but as he did, the edge of the trap crumbled and he was falling, barely managing to grab Moriarty by the shirt and pull him down onto the bamboo spikes to share his fate.

Liam was all alone in the dawn light when he found the trap and the bodies that lay inside it. He shuddered at the bamboo going straight through Sherlock's skull and Moriarty's neck, impaling not just that, but steadily all the way down. Liam shuddered, knowing there was still someone out there. Three of them, three of the enemy. And he didn't even know what he was watching for. He turned and ran away.

He didn't have a weapon, and neither did he want one. Weapons only hurt people and animals. But he knew that if he didn't find some way to protect himself, he was going to die. There was a third man out there, hunting him down, ready to kill him. He didn't know who or where or how, but it was going to happen. There was rustling in the grass outside, and Liam drew more closely into the tree trunk in which he was hiding. But he broke into a smile when he saw that it was only John. He ran out of the tree and hugged him. "I missed you." Liam clung to John's waist, happy to at least have something the Monsters hadn't killed.

"I missed you, too." John's hands went to Liam's ears and gently forced him to look at him. "I'd do anything to keep people from hurting you, love. You know it. Anything." Liam realized with horror that the look on John's face was the same look he'd had when he'd gone to kill Moriarty. He wasn't here to reassure Liam. He was here to kill him. "I'm just saving Sherlock," John said as he held Liam's head more insistently. Liam began to scream but it was cut off as John snapped his neck.

He awoke with a scream, momentarily disorientated as to who was dominant, but in the end, Liam was left primarily in charge. He lay dazed for a few moments, whimpering. John stood to take his hand, but Liam quickly yanked his away without another word and rolled over, unsure who he could trust.

"What?" John looked at him confused. "Are you okay?" Liam whimpered again and pulled the covers over him. "Liam, what's wrong?" He didn't reply.  
>Mycroft knocked at that moment, poking his head round the door cheerfully.<br>"Hello. Is everyone okay?" He took one look at Liam and sighed. "Apparently not. Could you step outside please, Dr. Watson? He doesn't appear to be in the mood to talk to you, don't take it personally. You know as well as I do how… _sulky_ he can be." His mouth curled and John nodded, closing the door behind him as he left.

He walked out into the garden and sat down on a hill, overlooking the rest of the city. _You know why he doesn't want to talk to you, don't you? He's realized how terrible you are._ John shivered, and reached in his pocket for his pills. With Liam being the way he was, he couldn't afford to be ill himself.

Tell Sherlock I said good luck for tomorrow and I wish him all the best.

_I hope you are well, John._

_-Zap x_

John smiled slightly, and put his phone away. Sherlock seemed to have forgotten all about Zapharia. It couldn't be easy for her, having lost her father and seen her brother almost kill a man.

"No, Avery, please stop," Liam moaned, holding his head. The nightmare had left him shaken, and being shaken left him with Avery and Sherlock's thoughts quite loud. "Please stop."

Some policemen came to take Liam to court—Zap's message hadn't come through for hours—and reluctantly, Liam agreed. "Wait, though, let me talk to Mycroft first please." They nodded and Mycroft returned. Liam hugged him. "Please, whatever happens, please keep John safe from himself. Please keep Zap safe too. And you too. There's not really any point in keeping Natalia safe because she won't like it but please protect the others. For me."

"Of course."

"I love you, My." Liam sniffled and held Mycroft very tightly, never wanting to let him go, knowing full well that he might not be able to share a tender moment like this again. "Tell John I love him too."

The brothers hugged one another for a few minutes before Mycroft stood and handed Liam his clothes. Liam stood and dressed with another gentle cough and the police handcuffed him and led him out of the hospital.

Mycroft returned to John. "It's time."


	10. Trial

The babbling in his head was just as loud as the babbling in the courtroom as Sherlock was brought in. Everyone knew who he was, of course, but they couldn't know that Liam was singing in his mind, the elements song, and Avery was fantasizing violently. It was as though the two people on either side of him were chattering incessantly.

He could tell that Avery was aware and that Liam wasn't. He felt as though he were barely in control of himself, which might be good, and it might not. Sherlock's emotions were unusually high for him and he suspected that in his transfer from hospital to hospital, his psychiatric medication had fallen off his paperwork. But it was too late for that now. He just had to keep steady.

He looked at John apologetically—he knew how Liam had reacted this morning, but hadn't had a chance for a proper apology. The first time he'd been in control was just a few moments ago as he stepped through the door of the courtroom.

The man he'd (Avery, he reminded himself) attacked was sitting in the stands, with a freshly-set nose and a slowly healing cut lip, as well as numerous bruises. Sherlock couldn't look at him any more.

Everything was in place now. The lawyers were giving their opening statements, and he'd been right about the defense going for the insanity plea. "All you have to decide is whether or not he knew right from wrong when he attacked Mr. Picard. If he did, you have to convict, but if there is any doubt in your mind whatsoever, acquittal is the only option."

Sherlock took a deep breath as the crown prosecutor rose from his seat. "The court would like to call Dr. John Watson as first witness."

John stood up and slowly paced towards the stand. He stood with a grim look on his face.  
>"Doctor Watson, you refused to testify at first. Is this because you were coerced?" He could feel all the eyes in the room on him, including those of the man that Avery had injured— he'd flown out from France to see this.<br>"No. I refused to testify out of loyalty."  
>"But, is it not true that Mr Holmes has hospitalized you twice?" John swallowed. He glanced over at Sherlock who had his hands in his thinking position.<br>"Yes, that's true. However, as I'm sure you're aware, he was not in control of his actions. He has Dissociative identity disorder." A small wave of mutters went through the courtroom.  
>"The incident in France, why didn't you press charges, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock coughed, and John knew what he shouldn't say. <em>Sentiment.<em>  
>"Because he wasn't in control of his actions. We are still looking for the correct treatment for him. So far we have been…" He glanced at Dr Hussey who was sitting in the crowd, "Unsuccessful."<br>"This seems to be a pattern!" The prosecutor waved his arms. "If he can't control his actions, then he needs to be put away."

Sherlock looked straight at John, a look of mixed thanks and desperation. His face changed momentarily, a slip to Liam, who let one tear fall before he shook his head and Sherlock was in command again.

The prosecutor asked question after question, and John answered all of them truthfully. The prosecution seemed airtight. Mycroft fidgeted in his seat, having studied law as a hobby, knowing that this was one of the fiercest prosecutors—but then, he'd hired the best defense attorney money could pay for, and it was her turn to cross-question.

"Yes, we can all see that the defendant has a long history of troubled behaviour. But these incidents were a direct result of the psychological trauma inflicted on him, isn't that right?"

"Yes. The effects of rape and torture." John said very plainly. Everyone in the court spoke louder than before, causing the judge to bang his desk.  
>"I see. And who is it that committed these crimes?"<br>"Jim Moriarty. It happened to both of us, and as a result we are both psychologically damaged." The defendant smiled.  
>"You see, ladies and gentlemen? Neither of these men can be blamed for what happened on the day in question. Jim Moriarty was thought to be dead, and it must have come as a large shock for Mr Holmes to see what he thought was his attacker walking around, at his own father's funeral."<br>"Objection!" The man who had been attacked jumped up, red in the face.  
>"Overruled." The judge banged on his desk with a yawn and turned to John, to wait for the next question.<br>The prosecution paced over to the stand with a smug grin. "Is it in fact true that you and Mr Holmes are in a homosexual relationship?"  
>The colour from John's face drained, and Sherlock coughed, making it clear that he wanted to speak.<p>

"What bearing does that have on the case?" Sherlock was using his best lawyer tone, though it was tinged with uncertainty. "Not motive. Not means. Certainly not opportunity. It's irrelevant to the issue. To the crime. Focus on the day in question or my experiences with Moriarty."

The judge banged his gavel, making Sherlock jump a little bit. "The defendant will remain silent. Nevertheless, he has a valid point. Please stick to relevant issues."

"In that case, no further questions."

_Copper—ooh, you told him—zinc—you sexy man—gallium—John, what is going on with your tie?—germanium—wonder who's on next—arsenic!_ Liam's mental singing was growing louder, as were Avery's comments, and Sherlock shook his head slightly, an unconscious attempt to quiet them.

"The witness is dismissed."

When John returned to his seat, there was an envelope with his name on it. Lestrade was called to the stand, and he was questioned about Sherlock's less-than-stellar people skills and how, at times, everyone in the Scotland Yard office had thought he was capable of committing crimes, but John ignored him to read the letter.

_Dear John:_

_I'm sorry I was mean to you earlier. I had a nightmare and you were one of the Monsters again. I'm still mad at you for that, but it's the past so I can't do anything about it. But you scare me sometimes and I want to run away when you do. I don't know if I'll get to say goodbye before Avery gets punished, but please forgive me for ignoring you._

_Captain Liam_

_P.S. I love you a lot and I probably always will._

_P.P.S. Thank Mycroft for giving you my letter. He wasn't supposed to but if you're reading this, he did anyway._

John tensed and went white in the face, as Mycroft took the stand. He was dressed as usual, with his hands in front of him, but with a more grave expression on his face.

"Mr Holmes. Can you tell us the events of the day in question?" He went on to explain, and John zoned out, remembering the day itself.

"Yes," Mycroft said before clearing his throat. "My brother was under significant psychological distress at the funeral, as well as what we discovered later to be a bout of influenza. He appeared to be overcome with the ills of his mind, as well, to the point that he was completely unable to mourn. He then ran over to a man who was talking to our half-sister and began to attack him. Dr. Watson made an attempt to pull him off, but was also attacked. The only thing that stopped him was our sister."

"And was this attack unprovoked?"

"Apparently."

"And did he show any sign of remorse, did he understand the consequences?"

"I'm…I'm not sure. He certainly didn't seem to. His rage was overwhelm…overwhelming. He didn't know how to fight it." Mycroft seemed to be growing emotional—understandably, as his memory of the attack was clear.

"No further questions." The prosecutor sat and the defense lawyer rose to cross-question.

"As his brother, surely you must have some idea of his motivation in the attack." Sherlock looked up from the box toward his brother, trying to ignore the voices in his head, knowing Mycroft would do his duty and not lie.

"Yes. My brother…" Mycroft looked down, almost ashamed of Sherlock, ashamed of the truth. "Within the last four months, he has been repeatedly raped, clinically dead, psychologically tortured, suffered from full sensory hallucinations, been addicted to cocaine and withdrawn from it, and has developed Dissociative Identity Disorder as well as what I understand to be a pre-schizophrenic condition. At the time of the attack, at our father's funeral, he had neglected his medication and was emotionally distraught. It's been my observation that he was also hallucinating at the time, as well as feverish. The man he attacked resembled one of the men who raped him."

Avery's and Liam's thoughts were starting to overwhelm Sherlock again, not as badly as the first time he'd tapped into Avery's horrifically violent mind, but enough to make him feel as though he was drowning. The sound of Mycroft's voice again helped ground him as he swayed back and forth where he sat.

"…nature of this psychological torture?"

Mycroft shifted uneasily. It felt like betrayal to go into such private detail of something Sherlock didn't want discussed. "One of his rapists was dressed to resemble his lover. That particular torture lasted about ten days. The second time, he was dosed with a hallucinogen and made to think that both his lover and I had been brutally murdered in front of him. The third time, he was drugged and raped while—" Mycroft broke off, aware that his lapse in security led to the tragedy of which he was about to speak. "While he lay on top of his also-drugged lover. He was also assaulted on a train, in private, by the same man, two days prior to the attack." In Sherlock's mind, the violent whispers of Avery's thoughts had competition in the form of Liam's childlike curiosity, unaware of what his body was doing, but nevertheless incessant.

"No further questions." Mycroft rose and returned to a seat in the gallery—even though he wasn't supposed to be allowed to watch the proceedings, an exception was made because of his status in both his profession and as family.

John watched the victim take the stand to give the statement he had written.  
>"The attack was unprovoked. I was Avery's good friend, and I do not understand why such a terrible thing had to happen on the day of his funeral. His son clearly has no respect for his father who was so good to him." The judge thanked him, and asked him to sit back down.<p>

Sherlock was biting his lip, trying to hold in any smart comments he had. "Doctor Hussey will now take the stand." John put his head in his hands with a sigh.

Hussey was a defense witness, called on to prove that Sherlock hadn't been in his right mind. Sherlock, for his part, was biting back the urge, not only to retort against the victim's claim that his father was kind to him, but also to shout at Avery and Liam to shut up. He knew it wouldn't do any good, so he didn't bother, but it was quite a struggle, and he felt like the camel that it would only take one more straw. Maybe two, if he fought hard.

Hussey was sworn in, and Sherlock made sure to get eye contact with the man he felt was responsible for turning his mind inside out—personalities he might have been able to deal with, the hallucinations not so much. And talking of hallucinations, there was one in the spectator (for lack of another term) stands right now. Moriarty. He couldn't be there, security would have stopped him, and anyway, he wouldn't be brazen enough to help Sherlock's defense by being there.

_That fucking—_Avery's thoughts were a howl of rage after that, directed at the hallucination. Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, balling his fists so hard his fingernails were leaving impressions. "Stop," he whispered. When he opened his eyes, Moriarty was gone, confirming that he'd been a mere hallucination. Sherlock took a shaky deep breath and watched Hussey's questioning.

"What is your professional opinion on the mental state of the defendant?"

Hussey answered concisely, professionally, and impartially. "Dissociative Identity Disorder, along with strong indicators for a pre-schizophrenic condition known as schizophreniform disorder, antisocial personality disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, and possible Asperger's." Sherlock frowned. It sounded so different like this, as though it weren't him being discussed. Someone different. Someone who needed help.

"Which, if any of these, only developed after the defendant was raped?"

"I'd never seen him once prior to the incident, but I gather that the DID, PTSD, and schizophreniform are definitely recent. That's why I can't diagnose schizophrenia—it requires a six-month period, and it's only been three months since the first attack."

"First attack?"

"Yes, Sh—the defendant has been the victim of two separate rape incidents with the same perpetrator, as well as a kidnapping and torture."

"Can these disorders influence the ability to recognize right from wrong?"

"Under certain conditions, yes."

The defense lawyer shifted her stance. "I'd like to play the video of your interview." Hussey nodded, despite there being no real chance of not being able to refuse.

_Sherlock was on camera, Hussey out of view._

"_How are you, Sherlock?"_

"_Ill. And unnerved."_

"_Have you been taking your medication?"_

"…_usually."_

"_Why only usually?"_

"_I…had a minor fit. I think the term is that I was triggered. Slept through to the next day, and nearly missed my father's funeral." _

"_Ah. So you were off your medication at the time of the attack."_

"_Yes."_

"_What triggered you, the previous day?"_

_Sherlock looked down. "Moriarty…accosted me. Made very unwanted physical contact. Grabbed me. After that, I remember nothing clearly. There was some discussion of John threatening him or something to that effect. Stop talking about it, it only hurts and you know it, and you might get John in trouble. Yes, thanks for that, but I don't think—shut up now, alright." Sherlock leaned back in his chair before coughing, looking extremely unwell._

"_Have you taken your medication today?"_

"_Yes. And it seems to be working overall."_

"_Not today?"_

"_It severely dampens my emotions. It does nothing to dispel their thoughts, and only barely suppresses hallucinations."_

"_I see. Are you hallucinating now?"_

"_Not as such. Their thoughts are…loud. As loud as my own. Avery's thinking about…" A cough. "Well, about John, actually. Liam's composing."_

"_Composing?"_

"_Mentally humming a new piece of music."_

"_Ah. What do you remember about the attack itself?"_

"_Nothing everything. Avery's overlapping. Trying to speak."_

"_Let him."_

_Sherlock shook and shifted to a posture that those who knew Avery would recognize as his. "I thought he was Moriarty. I've wanted to kill him for so long now that I thought my chance had come. That's all. I saw him talking to my half-sister and took the opportunity."_

"_You said you thought he was dead."_

"_I did. I do. But if anyone can come back from the dead, it's that bastard. Please don't use words like that, they're not nice. Shut up. Don't fight. I'm speaking."_

"_Did you know what you were doing was wrong?"_

"_Oh, you're headed for the insanity defense," Avery laughed. "Beating up a random man unprovoked, yeah, that's wrong. Beating the shit out of a criminal mastermind that the law can't touch, that's just justice delivered. Didn't realize it wasn't Moriarty, that's all."_

"_I see."_

"_Don't do that."_

"_Don't do what?"_

"'_I see' like the patronising git that most people think psychiatrists are. I know it must suck for you to have your pay docked this month, but you don't have to take it out on me. Stop that, it's not about him, even though it's obvious from his lunch ticket, just please focus on answering the questions, shut the hell up, he's talking to me." Sherlock shook again. "Please don't hurt Sherlock. It was Avery who did it. Sherlock wouldn't have hurt that man. But I do think that it was the Spider Monster we saw. Not the man that got hurt, but there was someone there who really looked like him."_

"_Liam, are you aware that Moriarty's body was found in a hotel, the morning of your father's funeral?"_

"_N…no. I didn't know that. Does that mean we imagined him?"_

"_I'm afraid it does."_

_Sherlock was crying, childlike and innocent. "I'm sorry Avery hurt that man. I'm sure he is a nice man and that his wife is nice too and is probably sad for him. I'm sorry, I really really am, but I don't want Sherlock or me to be punished because it was Avery who hurt him. Will the man be okay?"_

"_Yes, Liam, he will."_

The tape ended. Sherlock had been wanting to see video footage of his alters for some time now, and now that he had, it was strange. He really was three totally different people. He tilted his head, tense, as the thoughts of the unaware Liam and the very-aware Avery (who was still roaring and swearing at the hallucination of Moriarty) were babbling in his mind, and he tried to shake them out.

"Is it your opinion, doctor, that he was aware of the moral implications of the attack at the time?"

"I don't think he did. I wasn't there, but there's strong evidence to suggest he had no way of knowing right from wrong. In a sense, his mind had been stuck in a tumble-dryer and he didn't know which way was up, so to speak."

"No further questions." The defense sat and the prosecutor rose.

"You say that these conditions only sometimes remove moral ability."

"Yes."

"And, as we've seen, the defendant has previously assaulted his lover, nearly killing him twice, and he knew full well that was wrong. You just have to look at his face now to realize it." The man gestured to Sherlock who was, in fact, frowning, unwanted memories of France surfacing. "So would you call him dangerous?"

"If unmedicated, possibly."

"Is he on his medication now?"

"Objection. The defendant is not in the witness box."

"Sustained." (Sherlock's hallucinations of Avery and Liam were starting to manifest—he was very not well indeed, but there was nothing he could do. He hadn't had his medication. This was proof. Avery was sitting beside the judge, smoking and carving something out of bone. Liam was watching the court reporter type, starting to gain awareness.)

"Was he on his medication during his father's actual death?"

"Yes."

"And yet he showed no hint of regret then."

"This medication can…flatten emotions, nullify them."

"I see. So without the medication, he's a raging monster and with it, he's completely emotionless."

"…Not completely. But very nearly." (Avery smirked.)

"Ah. I also understand that he's stopped seeing you professionally."

"Yes."

"Why is that?"

"There is cause to believe that an experimental procedure I performed may have aggravated his condition."

"Aggravated to what degree?"

"Prior to the operation, there were no hallucinations. No bouts of paranoia. He was frightened of his alter persona but he couldn't actually see him."

"What did this procedure consist of?"

Hussey looked down, ashamed. "Repeatedly shocking the patient's brain while under the influence of certain compounds." (Liam was walking around the courtroom, looking at everything, more aware than not now.)

"Isn't that electroconvulsive therapy, a technique that was once widely used?"

"It uses it as a basis. The experimental drug was an addition."

"Has it ever produced extended psychosis?"

"No."

"And how many patients has this procedure been performed on?"

Hussey shifted, and when he spoke, it was softly, almost ashamedly. "…only one. Only Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock leapt from his box, toward the witness stand, screaming. "I was the first? The only one?" The guards managed to grab him again, but he was kicking and fighting, still shouting. "You didn't know what it would do to me? You have no right to play God! Not with my head!" The judge banged the gavel. (Avery had charged Hussey with his knife, before remembering he was incorporeal and thus could do nothing. Nevertheless, he kept his knife on Hussey's throat.)

"Order! Control the defendant!" Sherlock fell silent, shaking with rage. Not only had Hussey performed what was essentially an experiment on him, but he'd been the very first person to have undergone that procedure.

"So there's no reason to believe that your machine caused this alleged schizophreniform disorder?"

"The timing is right. It was only after it that he began hallucinating."

"A week and a half afterward, or thereabouts. Not immediately."

"True."

"So it's possible that he invented these…hallucinations. The personalities."

"He'd have to be a damn good actor."

Sherlock felt sick. Of course he was a good actor. He'd been told he should pursue it as a profession. And the gleam in the crown prosecutor's eye only doubled that cold feeling in his stomach.

"Were you aware that for many years, the defendant steadily held lead roles in his grade school's theatrical troupe? Or that he participated in an amateur dramatics society as recently as five years ago and won an award for his performance as a serial killer? He was so convincing that even the other actors were frightened of him and took to not being alone with him."

"Was for a case," Sherlock muttered. The judge gave him a warning look.

"No, I didn't know that."

"No more questions."

Sherlock was trying to control his shaking. He was furious and for an instant, Avery took over. He tried to squirm his way free of the guards, trying to attack Hussey or the crown prosecutor, but Sherlock regained control after a minute and a half of this, leading to a momentary blackout as the next defense witness, who was actually John, took the stand.

"For how long would you say he's been unstable?"

"Probably since Moriarty came back after the fall. He'd shot himself in the head in front of Sherlock, yet there was never a body found. We all thought.. we thought his henchmen had taken him, but instead he came back to attack Sherlock, and myself."  
>The judge nodded. "I see. Can you give us any proof of these 'so called' attacks? No evidence has ever been given in a court of law, such as this."<br>John was shaking with rage, but tried his best to remain as calm as possible.  
>"There was a DVD…" Mycroft had brought it with them, just in case. "There are recorded messages on our answer phone machine, saved. There are physical marks. There is clear psychological damage to both of us, his just more severe." He nodded in Sherlock's direction.<br>"There will be no further questions, Dr. Watson. We will congregate here in one hour. Mr Holmes will go with the officers back to a cell in the meantime."

There was a babble, and everyone left the courtroom. John stood down and looked over at the jury with pleading eyes, before meeting Mycroft at the back.

"There is just one more thing," said the defense attorney. The judge held up a hand and the jury returned to their seats. "I would like to play the DVD." Sherlock shut his eyes. _No, no, God, no, don't do that, don't make me watch it, don't make me live through that again._

The lawyer continued. "I'd like to bring the following piece of evidence to the court's attention. It contains excerpts from a closed-circuit television recording made by Moriarty himself during the torture which took place in a disused area of the zoo. The images are…disturbing."

"Objection. Relevance?"

"Goes to motive, Your Honour, and also discloses more fully the nature of the psychological torture previously mentioned."

"Overruled. Show the tape."

The first clip was of Sherlock in the test chamber on the ground, shouting out in pain. Moriarty's voice rose above it.

"_Didn't know you were so sensitive," came Moriarty's voice. "Ah! But that's right! Cocaine withdrawals and you haven't had your other medicine today…oh, poor Sherlock, poor, poor Sherlock."_

"_Stop it." Sherlock grabbed at his head for no obvious reason. "Stop it, shut up, just stop it."_

"_Hallucinating already? That's not meant to happen until day seven…oh, but your split personality! Oh, this is too magnificent for words!" _

"_D-day seven?" Sherlock's expression blanked out right before the tape did, switching to a new clip. _(Sherlock began to shake, in shock once again, knowing what was coming next.)

"_Ooh, look what we found!" Moriarty's voice was full of glee as a man who looked only vaguely like John was led in. To the jury, it was plain that this was not John, despite similar physical characteristics. The man hugged Sherlock, clearly pretending to be John for reasons unknown at this point. "Oh, Rowland? Shoot Doctor Watson." The security guard fired his weapon, and the bullet wound through the stranger's head caused blood to cover Sherlock._

"_You bastards! You fucking bastards! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" What looked like Sherlock (but was really Avery) was clawing at the door, screaming. The tape went black again as a new clip began_. (In the courtroom, Sherlock was starting to voicelessly whisper to himself as his ability to conquer the voices in his head was stripped away just by watching what had happened.)

_Sherlock was running his hands along the ground, silently sobbing. He lay on the ground, clearly on the verge of sleep when a burst of sound, the sound of a dozen children's television themes all at once jolted him awake. He sat up and looked at the camera, opening his mouth to speak when at least a hundred chicken nuggets came pouring in from the ceiling._

"_Oh, no, no, they're not poisoned. Wouldn't want you dying before I'm done with you. Now…where's that lovely brother of yours?" Sherlock mouthed a reply to Moriarty, but it was inaudible on the tape. "What's that? You're worried about him? I'm touched. I didn't think you cared." Sherlock threw some of the blood-soaked nuggets at the camera in rage. Soon, another man, similar in height and build to Mycroft, but nowhere near like him in face was brought in and also shot, and it was clear that the event had traumatised Sherlock to very nearly the point of no return._

"As you can see for yourselves, neither Doctor Watson nor Mr. Holmes were actually killed. It was found later that a powerful hallucinogenic with known severe neurological side effects was present in the defendant's bloodstream. These traumatic events caused the defendant to retreat into a near-vegetative state for several days out of shock. It's no surprise that any further agitation, such as a fever-distorted sight of a man similar to his captor, would trigger a violent state. He couldn't help himself when he assaulted Mr. Picard."

Being forced to relive his experiences in the zoo snapped Sherlock's mind and he could no longer stand or stay silent, muttering with his eyes wild and unseeing as the court guards attempted to support him. "Will the defendant please be silent," ordered the judge, but Sherlock couldn't respond. His mumblings, which seemed completely incoherent to those who didn't know he was relaying the thoughts of all three of his minds, only grew more frantic. Mycroft, regardless of the rules, approached Sherlock, taking the weight from the guards and lowering him to the floor, cradling him in a rare moment of emotional weakness.

"Shhh, Sherlock. Everything is going to be fine." Mycroft held Sherlock's head, watching as his little brother's eyes were rolling around in his head, pupils so small as to seem nonexistent, looking for a way out.

"Mr. Holmes," the judge said sternly. Mycroft ran his hands through his brother's hair reassuringly.

"I'll come right back, Sherlock. I promise." Mycroft stood and returned to his seat, wiping a tear.

"Nnnno," moaned Sherlock, interrupting his now-incessant muttering. "Don't leave, you can't leave, help me, Mycroft, I'm falling again, drowning again, dissolving again, please, please don't leave me all alone with _them_…"

The judge banged his gavel, which was the worst possible thing to do, re-triggering the memories of not-John and not-Mycroft being killed in front of him, and now Sherlock was half-screaming. A nurse was ordered to sedate him and he came over quickly with a syringe. Sherlock's senses, distorted by his panic attack, translated his intentions into a personal attack of a potentially lethal nature.

"No, you have to stop him, stop, he'll kill me-us, we'll die!" Sherlock kicked out violently, cracking the wood in the railing in front of him before the syringe had gone in and the sedative started to take hold. Sherlock slumped, unconscious, and the judge took off his glasses and rubbed his head, clearly shaken by Sherlock's outburst.

"Court will adjourn while the jury makes a determination." The guards half-dragged Sherlock back to his cell.

John stayed quiet as he waited for Mycroft to walk down from the stands. He put one hand on John's back and escorted him out, his face pale.

John sat outside whilst Mycroft paced around, texting, making phone calls, smoking. He tapped his feet and watching the eldest Holmes brother panicking, a rare sight to see.

When they finally went back into the courtroom and sat down, Sherlock was awake, but almost completely white in the face, slouched over the stand.  
>"Sit up." One of the guards hissed at Sherlock, pushing him into the chair. He growled and shoved him off, clearly turning into Avery. John stared at him with pleading eyes, and then Sherlock took hold.<p>

Sherlock looked, quite frankly, pitiful. He looked at John and mouthed "so loud" before the guards stood in the way. Sherlock moved the guard out of the way—he needed to see John and Mycroft because it was the only thing keeping him level, the voices of Avery and Liam, and now even Moriarty half-deafening. Everything else felt like it was a dream, like it wasn't real, like it was just a hallucination and that his hallucinations were what was real.

"We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect, and recommend he be committed to an institution until such time as the medical community feels him fit to return to his daily activities."

The judge banged his gavel, making Sherlock jump and momentarily hyperventilate. "You are free to go, Mr. Holmes," he said, and Sherlock ran to John, grabbing hold to the point where John could only barely breathe.

"John. I don't know reality. You're real?" His thoughts were disjointed, but the message was clear. "They want me to go away."

"Yes," said Mycroft, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder. "I was prepared for this and have both the transportation to take you there as well as the hospital prepared. Shall we?"

Sherlock swayed, losing control for a moment as Liam took over. "John, why are the voices in my head so loud? Everything else is quiet, like when I'm listening to headphones. And I feel strange." He staggered again. "This isn't right, I'm not right."

"And that, dear brother, is the reason we're taking you to the foremost mental facility in the nation. And you won't be seeing Doctor Hussey any longer." Mycroft was just as bitter about the experimental procedure as Sherlock was. "Coming, Doctor Watson?"

**Sherlock and Mycroft's private Twitter accounts:**

**The_SherlockH:** I have to get some rest. Some peace and quiet in my head. This isn't working, none of it's working. I don't want to dissolve.

**MisterMycroft:** You'll be fine, Sherlock, I'm sure they'll do whatever they can to help you, wherever you go.

**The_SherlockH:** I know, Mycroft, I just...I need it now. I needed it four months ago when this nightmare began. It's far too late.

**MisterMycroft:** No, it isn't too late to ease it. Too late to prevent it, perhaps, but they'll find a way to help, I promise.

**The_SherlockH:** Like Hussey helped me?

**MisterMycroft:** I understand you're a bit wary of psychiatrists and neurosurgeons right now, but please, if they want to help, let them try.

**The_SherlockH:** That's what screwed me up, Mycroft. Too many people too willing to help. And just enough desperation to let them.

**MisterMycroft:** One rotten apple does not condemn the tree. Give it a chance.

**The_SherlockH:** I know. I'll try. I just don't want this to get any worse.

**MisterMycroft:** Neither do I.


	11. Punishment Phase

After a month, John was finally allowed to see Sherlock at the institution. He arrived to find the lead doctor waiting for him. "Hello, Dr. Watson," he said with a smile. "Come in, come in!" He brought John in as though it were a home rather than a medical facility and escorted him to his private office. "He's doing remarkably well," Dr. Jenkins said. "He might be ready for release as early as next week, actually. Tea?" He made some anyway. "We've started treating him with a different method. Dr. Hussey was trying to treat the multiple personalities with drugs alone, which was the problem. We're giving him medication for his schizophrenic symptoms, rather than treating against the personalities, and using hypnotherapy to ease some of his anxieties about Avery and Liam. He's now able to sort of step back in favour of one of the others. He still can't take a foothold, but he can surrender if someone's trying to talk. He's doing amazingly well, really. Never had a patient bounce back so quickly. He hasn't had a fit since—well, that's not entirely true." Jenkins scratched his head. "He had an extremely powerful paranoid delusion and had to be sedated about lunchtime half an hour ago. He was convinced the lunch staff were working for Moriarty because today's food item was chicken nuggets. He should still be out." He nodded and motioned for John to follow him, leading him down another corridor and into a sparse room that reminded John of a hotel. Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was on the bed, completely unconscious, even drooling slightly. Jenkins continued in a whisper. "It's most interesting. I've met all of his alters, and they all excel at different things. Artistically, Avery's forte is painting and drawing, Sherlock prefers composing music, and Liam enjoys sculpting." Jenkins smiled at John. "I expect you're tired of hearing how amazing he is, but he really is something. They all interact with people differently, too. Avery's distant—he usually only speaks when spoken to. Sherlock is happy to give his input, but skips small talk. Liam, on the other hand…" Jenkins was practically glowing with pride. "There's another resident, Janelle, who is the victim of similar trauma, regressed to a child. She barely spoke, never made eye contact, can barely fend for herself. Didn't dress without help, couldn't bathe herself. Like she'd been swallowed up in agony. She's been here five years and never improved. But then Liam went up to her and asked to play pirates, didn't even treat her delicately like the other residents do. Treated her like a person. And she's so much better. It's like Liam brought her out of her darkness. They're really close now. She still only talks to him, but to look at Liam and Janelle, you'd think they were playmates from childhood."

Sherlock began to stir slowly, waking up. He caught sight of John, frowned for a moment, confused at him being there, but sat up and placed his hand on the back of John's neck, bringing their heads together. Then Avery—and it was clearly Avery—kissed him passionately. "I missed you."

"Worst month of my life." John sighed, and hugged him tightly, not really wanting to let go. "I missed all of you. I have about thirteen tubs of ice cream in the freezer, twenty packs of cigarettes and more tea than you can imagine. Mrs Hudson keeps buying stuff." Avery smiled and licked his lips. The doctor smiled, and left, leaving the door ajar.  
>"You might be able to leave next week, if you behave." John smiled, reaching into his bag. "Until then, I brought you three some books."<p>

He pulled out a coloring book with crayons and some pirate books. "Liam will like these, I'm sure." He pulled out some books on crimes and some specific books that Avery had asked for, that were clearly erotica. Avery raised his eyebrow with a smile. "I couldn't get you any on murderers, unfortunately. The doctor said that it would be inappropriate." He got out Sherlock's books, ones about deep scientific mysteries, his disorder, and everything he had asked for. "I hope you like them." He smiled, and kissed Avery again.

"Not nearly as much as seeing you," Avery said. "Nothing could be better than that." He reached one hand down the back of John's underwear and squeezed. "Unfortunately, Big Brother's watching, and I don't mean Mycroft." He looked toward a camera above the door. "But I'd be willing to ignore that if you are." He smiled devilishly before blanking and removing his hand. "Oh. Hello." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well. Avery seems to be just as happy to see you as I am." He smiled. "I feel fine, John," Sherlock smiled softly. "Better than fine. I feel almost right. I haven't been mixed since I started the new medication, provided I've taken it, I haven't had the nightmare since I stared the hypnotherapy, Avery hasn't attacked anyone, Liam's made a friend, and I can think." He seemed as elated as he got without illegal chemicals. "I'm good again." He sighed, happily. "To think this wouldn't have happened, we never would have known about Hussey, I wouldn't have found something that worked if Avery hadn't attacked that man."

John grinned. "I've missed you. Being like this, and in general. The flat isn't the same without you, it's actually _clean._ I arranged all your case files in alphabetical order because I was that bored." Sherlock sighed with a smile and flopped back into the bed, leaving space for John to curl up next to him.

"I've missed this." John mumbled into Sherlock's chest. "Oh, I almost forgot. I brought Hamish for you." He looked up at Sherlock, who was grinning. He said how he didn't need it right now as John was here. John sat up. "Your hair… It's extremely short." Sherlock's hair was the shortest John had ever seen it. Sherlock explained how the doctors had let him get a haircut, and the hairdresser had cut it extremely short. "You suit it." John smiled. Sherlock grumbled, and ran his hand through it.

"So, how is Liam?" John went on to ask, with a small smile.

"Lonely at first. But…he has a friend called Janelle." Sherlock frowned slightly. "Strange, though. She doesn't respond to Avery or I, only Liam. Only ever Liam, apparently. The other doctors say she's been here for years, but never made contact until Liam wanted to play with her. Now they're best friends. Spend all their time together. She's happy because of him. He's happy, too. She's not you, of course, but…they understand each other, I think." Sherlock took out a small sculpture of a snake from his dresser. "Liam made this. Art therapy. Almost like preschool for him." He set it on top of the dresser. "They have me keeping a journal on paper. To record everything I'm feeling or thinking. I'm afraid my first entry was a bit…stressed, though the one after it significantly less so. If you want to read it." He handed John the journal, half-wanting him to read it and half-not. "Supposed to show it to Doctor Jenkins every week. Not been writing as much as I'm supposed to, but I'm afraid a majority of the entries would be complaints of boredom if I were to write daily."

"I think it's best I don't read it. It's entirely personal." Sherlock shook his head and insisted. "Okay then, give me a moment." John read quietly as Sherlock watched him, keen to see his reaction.

**Sherlock's journal:**

It isn't the first time this week I've woken wondering who I am.

It's stupid, really. You'd think by now that I'd have come to grips with this shift in Self, or at the very least, be able to instantly recognize that I am not in control.

I'm Sherlock as I'm writing this. Avery's sitting across from me, watching me as he always does, the undisguised lust as plain as day. It disgusts me. It confuses me. (Admittedly, during a lucid dream, exploration took place, and it was by far the most enjoyable of my, quite frankly, scant sexual experiences, though I have no wish to repeat the incident.) Why does he maintain such desire for a body that is his own? There is no real love from him. He is undoubtedly a psychopath. Psychopaths do not love. His sexual near-exclusivity and apparent attachment to John are the only things that break the normal standards of that term (and even that is fragile. Avery would not mourn John's loss with abstinence—he would exact revenge and move on to the next partner. It's happened, during the blackness when I thought he and my brother were dead.) As ever, he smokes as he watches. It's a symptom of my pre-schizophrenic condition (and the term makes me shiver) that I hallucinate him so vividly. Every sense registers him as real. I smell his cigarettes. I see him. I hear him. If he were to come near, I would feel him. Everything is telling me that he is not in my mind, but I know quite well that he is.

His shirt, which is tighter than my own, sits unbuttoned to the base of the sternum. He wears no jacket, and his trousers are skin-tight. I know that I myself find the pressure of slightly-too-small clothing a comfort, though in Avery's case, there is a definite sexual component to his manner of dress. He is very unlike me, and yet somehow, very much the dark parts of my mind that I've been able to control my entire life. It unnerves me when he watches what I'm doing. Perhaps it's because he shares my father's name, a father that was no father at all to me, not even in his dying moments.

Liam is staring out of the window. He rarely knows of Avery or my own behavior. Because of that, I find the seven-year-old child by far the more distracting hallucination, persisting with his rote recitations of the periodic table of the elements even when it's disruptive to what I'm trying to do. He smells of candy floss and is dressed in my own childhood pirate costume (no eye-patch, no hat, but everything else is the image of the romanticized pirate as seen in film and television over the last forty years). Right now, he is content simply to watch the birds outside.

I was never quite the child that (Captain) Liam is. He's generally happy, optimistic, physically affectionate, and kind. I, who am almost always aware of him, have observed that he reaches out to others. A patient by the name of Janelle, who suffered horrendous trauma of her own and thus regressed into a childlike state, has become Liam's close friend. She spoke to no one else in the five years she has been here. She never so much as made eye contact until the day Liam asked her to play pirates. He has healed her, at least partly. I worry about what will happen to her when I leave.

Avery and Liam do not coexist peacefully. Avery is violent, sexualized, calloused, and downright cruel. He swears and shouts and is not afraid to start fights. (For that reason alone, I am thankful that I am not serving prison time for the assault. If Avery were in charge of me in prison, I would be dead in under a week.) Liam is gentle, sex-aversive, kind, and emotionally tender. (Undoubtedly such behavior would also, in a prison circumstance, have led to our mutual death.) The time I spent a weekend under observation, Avery and Liam disagreed to the point where Avery destroyed some of Liam's toys out of revenge for Liam colouring in his sketchpad.

If I look at it like this, I'm fine. If I remain detached, think of them as separate entities from myself and one another, I am fine. I can manage. Otherwise, the panic begins to set in, that sensation that I am completely and utterly shattered. It can't be called schizophrenia yet, not until June when six months have passed since the first symptoms appeared. But then, it's undeniable. Several instant criteria apply, namely the hallucinations of the others interacting, and another that, at present, I cannot recall. Comorbidity (the presence of both disorders) of Dissociative Identity Disorder and schizophrenia are rare, contrary to what pop culture would have you believe (at least according to my research material). Nevertheless, it appears that my otherwise delightfully atypical brain has decided to beat the odds and have them both. But I think Dr. Hussey was partly at fault as well—the experimental electroshock therapy (I say experimental—I was the only patient. It still distresses me) appeared to trigger some break in my mind. For a week after it, I was fine. Three days, I had little or no mobility as my brain struggled to sort itself, but after that, I was good. Prior to that, I had no hallucinations, only the changes. But then, in France, I saw Avery in the darkness. It was no dream. (I wonder, though I doubt, if the operation also triggered my…most demonic of sexual traits.)

That's all in the past. No sense hoping for a change, only an alteration. What's happened has happened. I can only hope to manage, not overcome.

Yesterday, I thought my morning nurse was Moriarty. I'm seeing him now. That would be the paranoia. (Justifiable paranoia, I think, but paranoia nonetheless.) Why won't my mind just let me rest? Give me some peace from the horrors of the last four months?

The hypnotherapy is helping to manage Avery and Liam. I can just about voluntarily surrender now, though regaining a foothold is near-impossible still. If one of them tries to surface inconveniently, I can manage to hold them back, though I can hear their thoughts more loudly. I haven't had the nightmare about the barn in France since the second night. Maybe it was the medication. Maybe it was a simple change in environment. And the medication they're giving me makes the hallucinations vanish. I still hear their thoughts on days when they were loud to begin with, but once the chemicals have passed into my bloodstream and into my brain, the images and smells and touch of them fades. Unfortunately, I'm meant to take it three times a day. I don't even eat on a regular schedule, how am I meant to do that?

Pouring out my soul onto the page is most uncharacteristic of me, I realize. If you're reading this, you're not accustomed to me being so open. But I'm tired. It's barely dawn and the nurses haven't yet begun their rounds. I have nothing to do at the moment, in this hour of peace, so I sit here. Perhaps it'll be published or something one day. Turned into a play, like The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail. Or more like Nijinski: God's Mad Clown. (Wicked irony. Natalia and I saw that in Prague when I was sixteen. We hid in the catwalk. I'd say fate is cruel, but I don't believe in it. Coincidence is cruel.)

I didn't think I'd miss John so much. I've…to paraphrase something I saw on the television the other night: I have grown accustomed to his behavior patterns. I missed him more during those three years, of course, but not in such a tactile way. Right now, I miss the physical more than the psychological. It's not his complaining at my "mess" or his focusing quality that I find myself yearning for. It's his heartbeat, his breathing. Of course, I've always found those as soothing as pressure; in University, when I couldn't sleep, I would lull myself to bed with a stethoscope against my own chest. The rhythm of life. And I miss his warmth. It will take adjusting once I've ended my…oh, hell. Is it an experiment any more? Is it a relationship? I don't know. I don't love him. Not in the traditional sense. But I'm not detached from the emotions of it. Perhaps that was my mistake. It will, undoubtedly, hurt, for the both of us, when I decide to end it. More for John than for me, of course, going by past patterns. I just don't know which I find more upsetting, the idea of being in a false romance or the idea of watching him in emotional agony. Is it better to attempt the lie than to see the pain in his eyes? Is he going to feel betrayed, as I did when Natalia left me for the mobster that beat me to unconsciousness? Or is he going to understand that I prefer all my relationships to be built on honesty in everything unless there are lives at stake? I can't love him. I've tried. For four years. (Admittedly, for three of them, he thought I was dead.) I know he understands that. But I've never broken off anything like this before and I'm not entirely certain how to go about it. I'm not going to do what comes naturally to me—I'm well aware that it may not be the best tactic. I haven't decided yet. When I have, I'll probably act on it.

My writings for the morning are about to come to an end. I hear the nurses delivering medications. It's not that I won't be able to write, it's that I won't see any need to. This journal is for my unaltered, undistorted thoughts. For that reason, I hope you forgive the somewhat scattered phrasing.

"Oh.." John looked up at him, sadly. "I had no idea you felt that way.. about us." Sherlock swallowed and didn't say anything.

There was a knock on the door. "Doctor Watson, I'm afraid your session is over now, say your goodbyes and I shall escort you to the entrance where there is a taxi to take you home." John nodded and looked at Sherlock. "I'll miss you." Sherlock nodded and squeezed John's hand. John leaned over a softly kissed him on the lips, before nodding, getting up, and leaving.

The instant John was gone, Sherlock let out a long sigh. Liam hadn't woken, probably hadn't even known John had come to visit. He resumed his normal activities, the day unremarkable after that.

The next afternoon when John arrived, Jenkins was puzzled and concerned. "He hasn't come out of his room today," Dr. Jenkins sighed. "We've done everything short of dragging him out of his room to get some response from him. He's piled his blanket in layers around his head, bolted the door shut, and thrown newspapers to the windows. We can see him on the camera, so we know he's fine," Jenkins added. He shrugged, concernedly. "But he hasn't had his medication. We don't even know who's dominant. He's just…lying there, curled up, trying to block the world out. I think he might be having sensory overload, and pretty severely. Has it happened before to this degree?"

"No." John bit his lip. "Is there anything you can do? He's had sensory overload before, but never like this…" The doctor tapped his foot with a nod.  
>"There is a telephone in the room, we could try to call, though that would probably have no effect. I understand he doesn't like speakers, so we picked a room without any, so we wouldn't trigger anything." John sighed.<br>"Let me try knocking."

He was escorted to the room. He knocked on the door three times. "Sherlock, it's John. Could you please open the door?" There was no reply. "Sherlock?" John coughed and turned round. "You might have to call him. I don't know. I'm worried." Jenkins nodded and pulled out his phone. John could hear the phone chiming from inside the room, but there was no reply.  
>"We'll have to use the key, which is something I'm not happy about doing. He's entitled to keep the door locked if he wishes. It seems appropriate, though." He pulled out a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. "I'll leave you to it." and he pushed the door open.<p>

**Sherlock's blog:**

Have you ever been in so much [ain that you watned to scream, but the act of screaming would intensify said pain a hundredfold? Physical pain. And they all know my senses are hyperacute but somehow they don't understand and they're knocking on doors and watching television and moving chairs and konking dihses to gether and the sun's too brihgt and the blanekts are too rough and even the kyes on the touch-screen on my phone are too loud and the detergent in my clothes is so strong.

Make it stop.

The best I can do is put papres ofer the windows and wrap my head in g lbankets.

It hasn't been like this in years. And I don't have the damned pills I used to take to help. Probably because they weren't legal, and it's the only time I've ever welcomeed sedaytivse.

Stop gtyping idiot.

Just as Jenkins had said, Sherlock was curled into a tight ball, blanket around his head and the windows blocked off as best as he could manage. It was total codominance at the moment, all three equally afflicted by the most severe overload he'd had since he'd been in university. Right now, the sound of the blood rushing through his ears was painful as was the touch of the liquid crawling gently down his face from his eyes, to say nothing of the slight squeak of the hinge as John opened the door, light spilling in to Sherlock/Avery/Liam's homemade dark zone. He knew it was John from the footsteps, could read the concern in the way John was breathing. "Off," he managed, Avery's growl muffled through the blanket that was more than quadrupled around his head, and he coiled even more tightly at the sound of his own voice.

John clicked the light off and shut the door. He slowly paced over to the bed and sat down beside him. He slowly put his arm around him, lying down next to him, not making a noise. Avery growled, slipped the cover off him and lay on his back, crushing John slightly. He looked up at the ceiling, eyes bloodshot, from what John could see from a single beam of light streaming in. A sheet of paper had fallen down. Avery winced at the light, moving his hands up to his head, looking as if he wanted to scream. John moved up to the window and put the paper back up, so the room was dark again. He could hear a whimper as he sat back down on the bed— Liam. Liam clutched onto John's hand, the other still on his head. John didn't speak, he wasn't at all sure what to do. The only person he could think of was Mycroft.

_Sherlock is having serious Sensory Overload. Can't speak, can barely move and is curled in a ball. Come asap._

_-John._

John put his arms around Liam, trying to steady his breathing, as he was beginning to panic. "Shh," He whispered as quietly as he could. "I'm here."

Liam/Sherlock/Avery flinched from both John's touch and his voice. "Stop," he whimpered, the sound of the phone keys painful, every touch stinging.

_On my way. Be gentle with him—if he's that bad, he should under no circumstances make physical contact with anyone._  
><em>MH<em>

When John phone chimed, Liam/Sherlock/Avery tensed and involuntarily moaned, causing him to shudder. "Sherlock, would you like a sensory deprivation chamber?" Jenkins was careful to use his slightest whisper, aware that even that was unwanted. "Yes," came the Liam-like reply, and Jenkins tapped into his phone to send a text to get it ready. Sherlock/Avery/Liam removed the blanket from his head, fighting tears and keeping his eyes shut, and stood up. "Hurry." This time, the voice was Sherlock, and he was in excruciating pain.

They took him down the hallway, but a woman's laugh in the galley made him cringe, and he brushed the wall to avoid someone and he let out a quiet half-scream as the gently textured wall felt like nails on his skin. The lights were too bright (_turn off the sun!_) and the smells of every soap or perfume a bombardment. He was shaking by the time he arrived at the room with the sensory deprivation chamber, and he stripped, prep-showered, and got into it as quickly as possible, gasping, the fences of his mind breaking down under the battering ram of his senses as the door shut.

"…wow," Jenkins said sympathetically. "I've had maybe a dozen patients who needed the tank during sensory overload since I've been here, but it's never been so…extreme. Usually it's only one sense that gets overloaded, but with him, it seemed to be everything. Good Lord."

"How long do we have to wait? I'm confused by all of this." Jenkins fixed his own tie and coughed.  
>"I'd say an hour, for now. We don't want to leave it too long." John nodded and sat down on one of the chairs outside the room.<br>"You can come to our staff area, if you like?" Jenkins smiled.  
>"Thank you, but I'd rather stay here. I don't want to leave him, in case he needs me. You understand…" Jenkins nodded.<p>

Jenkins went on to explain about isolation chambers and what they accomplish. John could hear Sherlock muttering quietly inside, probably to Avery and Liam.

When Mycroft arrived, he was brought to the area in which John was sitting. "Care to explain? I've never ever seen him this bad."

"He hasn't has a sensory attack like this since you moved in together, has he?" John said he hadn't, and Mycroft sighed. "When we were children, it would happen as often as twice a week. It was part of why Father was so harsh to him—he didn't understand and thought Sherlock was being lazy or that he was defective. It wouldn't always start in the morning, either. More than once, he was sent home from school because he'd gone from a testing environment, which he could cope with, to a group activity, which he couldn't. He would be brought home, and Mother, in an act of desperation, would give him sleeping pills to relax him and help him sleep it off. It lessened as he grew older, but commencement day was one of those days and in order for him to be…presentable, he had to take one of Mother's anti-anxiety pills, which, unfortunately for his reputation, left him less than fully aware." Mycroft looked at the chamber sadly. "Even then, it didn't fully work. I suspect it may have been one of his reasons for leaving University early. I know his first year of University, he had three attacks, his second year, he had two. After the second time, I received phone calls from his friend telling me he had taken morphine as a sedative. He continued to take it during the attacks, claiming medicinal purposes." Mycroft was not proud of these events, but he thought in the interests of disclosure, he should tell Jenkins. "I convinced him that opiates were not the best option, and he agreed, though he hasn't had an attack since, to my knowledge, and thus I don't know if he has taken my caution to heart. Eight years, if nothing happened after the Fall."

Mycroft frowned, memories of seeing Sherlock lucid to the point of vacancy strong and painful. From inside the tank, Sherlock quite clearly screamed "Stop!" before thumping in the tank against the walls. Jenkins slowly opened the door, and carefully whispered.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Go away!" The opening of the door had disturbed Sherlock's delicate semi-peace, and now his tenseness doubled.

"Still a lot of—"

"I said go away," Avery roared, leaping up, shoving Jenkins out of the way and slamming the door shut again, causing Sherlock/Avery/Liam to wince at the sound. He lay back into the water, shakily, trying to restore calm, and they could hear him crying.

"Usually an hour is enough…it's possible that he's hallucinating as well as the overload. And that's not going to go away. As your medical proxies, I'm asking your permission to sedate him."

**Sherlock's blog:**

STartted hleucinatnig

I'm ff mg mmmmmeds an sccremin ns houting nrmy hed nad itn hurts like hel t xist

THre wihdals weer btr than thss

Ned dseetative wickyl

"Yes." John said, before Mycroft had even opened his mouth. Mycroft nodded and sat down, gesturing towards the door.  
>"May I do it?" John asked timidly. "He doesn't really trust other medical professionals. Well, he does, but he'd probably prefer if I did it."<br>"It's not what is usually done here, but since you are a doctor, by all means."

John slipped into the room with the syringe that Jenkins had given him. Avery snarled at him, his eyes bloodshot. "I have to sedate you." Avery didn't say anything, instead, he just slid down into the corner. There was a bed in the isolation chamber, and John gestured towards it. He slowly crawled over and dragged himself up, wincing at the touch of fabric. When he was on the bed, John slid the syringe into his arm, causing him to yelp. After about a minute, he started to fall asleep, muttering as he did.

When he came out, Mycroft was on his phone, and Jenkins was filling out forms. "He's asleep." John stammered as he sat down.

Mycroft sighed in relief. "At least he is not in pain, at the present." Suddenly Mycroft seemed far older than he was, his family's troubles weighing heavily on him. "If his pattern holds, he'll wake up still sensitive, but no longer in excruciating pain."

Jenkins nodded. "I'm sorry we had to do that, but it seemed unavoidable. This was unrelated to his other problems, so he should still be able to go home in a few days, I think. Now all we have to do is wait for him to wake up. He should be awake with enough time to spare before visiting hours are over."

Both John and Mycroft opted to wait by Sherlock's bedside until he recovered consciousness. It was three hours before Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, awake at last, and it seemed his senses were behaving as he didn't appear to be in pain. He looked around and locked eyes with John for a moment before letting out a yelp and rolling over, shaking slightly. After about thirty seconds, he turned back. "Sorry, I…I thought for a moment that you were Moran. Same clothes. I keep hallucinating Moriarty. In the morning, before my medication. Vividly. As vividly as Avery and Liam, as they are when I haven't taken it. In the courtroom. In the morning, one of the nurses. In the middle of the night in the lavatory." Sherlock frowned. "In the shower, I thought I heard Moran. One of the cafeteria workers yesterday…I thought it was him. It wasn't a hallucination, just mistaken identity. I'd had a nightmare earlier. Thought it was Moran. Serving chicken nuggets. I…lost control and attacked him. That was the only time I've snapped since I've been here. Not sure about Avery. I genuinely thought Moriarty had manipulated my environment, here. So when I saw you, wearing that…" He looked haunted and confused. "Why am I seeing them?"

**Sherlock's blog:**

The day my brain unfailingly sees John for who he is and not even for an instant the corrupted memory of a man who was never him will be a day for celebration.

I hate feeling sick to see him. And it isn't just what Moriarty did, Moran as John. I see that test chamber, I see him being brutally murdered in my memory and though I know what really happened, I cannot help but think that somehow the John I'm seeing now is false. Then there are the scars that can only be described as claw marks. I know the precise amount of pressure it took to inflict such wounds, the exact bite strength to give him that injury on his neck. Because I was there. Because I did it. And yet somehow, he still trusts me, and I think that makes it more monstrous than what Moriarty and Moran did.

The medication helps soothe the panic of the PTSD, but I of all people can never forget that there were three people who desecrated John's flesh: Moriarty, Moran, and myself.

I am just as bad as they are, if not worse.

"They've traumatized you… It's understandable." John mumbled, reaching out for his hand. Sherlock squeezed his hand, not letting go. "You can still come home soon. Jenkins said so, in a few days." Sherlock smiled, not one of his usual forced ones.

When the visiting hours were over, Mycroft left John alone with Sherlock for a moment. "Zapharia's been asking after you. I told her what happened, she sends her love." Sherlock nodded, saying he'd texted her.  
>"I'm getting us a new cat. Louis seems to be lonely." Jenkins knocked on the door.<br>"I'll have to rush you, sorry."  
>John stood up, with a smile. "I'll be back tomorrow, okay? I love you." He kissed Sherlock on the forehead before leaving, quietly closing the door behind him.<p>

Mycroft was waiting for him, offering him a lift back to Baker street. "Thank you." John smiled, as they left slowly, not wanting to leave Sherlock alone.

"It's no trouble," Mycroft said. Sherlock watched from the window, sadly, as they left.

Sherlock awoke in the middle of the night—there was a storm outside, the wind howling, the rain slapping the window, and the power had been knocked out. He jumped at every thunderclap, unable to help it. And then Moriarty appeared, leering, his face illuminated by the lightning alone. Then Sherlock felt hands on his shoulders, bringing him to his feet, pulling his pants down. Hands that were definitely not Moriarty.

"No. Stop." He was limp but tense and his arm ached. Drugged. Again. The other person flung him back down into his bed, torso mostly off it, the edges of the bed drawing a line from his right collarbone to his left kidney, and the pounding began again.

"I missed you, Sherlock," crooned Moriarty in the darkness, his hot breath on Sherlock's face, Moran's hot flesh inside the helpless detective. The only thing Sherlock could do was gurgle in protest, not even able to speak. "No, no, no, don't try to speak. No one's going to be able to hear you. Moriarty kissed Sherlock, passionately, sincerely, and he felt himself blanking out. Avery replied to the kiss by biting down hard on Moriarty's lip. (Sherlock was still there, still aware, as was Liam, but Avery had taken control) "Ooh, feisty, are we?" Another flash of lightning, another clap of thunder, another kiss, another penetration.

"Fffff," Avery said, trying to swear and failing.

"You know, I think I enjoy these moments as much as Seb does." He placed an earbud in Avery's ear, started playing _Never Gonna Give You Up,_ grabbed Avery's head and kissed him again. Moran went in for another go, Liam trying his best to scream, Avery biting as hard as he could, biting off the tip of Moriarty's tongue and for once not being aroused by the taste of the blood. "I think that's enough," Moriarty said to Moran, hand clapped to his mouth in pain, yanking the music from Sherlock's ear and hitting him with a stun-gun in the back of the head, two inches above the axis vertebra, where the burn marks couldn't be seen inside his hair. The electricity surged through the tormented detective for a full minute, sending him into sense-memories of the operation gone wrong, scrambling his mind almost completely. "Until we meet again, Sherlock Holmes." Moran replaced Sherlock's clothing and left him on his stomach, sticking out of bed, in shock and gasping for the rest of the night, too disturbed to sleep.

Eight thirty in the morning, John got a phone call from Doctor Jenkins, asking for John to come straightaway. When John arrived, Sherlock wasn't in his room. He asked one of the attendants where Sherlock was, and she told him he was in the medical wing. Fearing the worst, John ran in that direction, passing a room where a dark-skinned woman about Sherlock's age was screaming, then was sedated. He burst through the hospital wing doors to find Mycroft sitting beside Sherlock, who was lying on his side on the bed, eyes wide, pupils pinhole thin, mouth open, face somehow both vacant and terrorized. There was a pulse monitor attached to his finger, and the machine, while silent, was registering his pulse as over 100. Jenkins approached John. "Doctor Watson, thank God. He's…we don't know, he's just in shock. We think something about last night's storm triggered him, and badly. It could have something to do with his hypersensitive state yesterday, possibly. Right now, the only way we get any response from him is with touch, and…Mr. Holmes?"

"If it's troubling him, I don't want to—"

"Just lightly."

Mycroft sighed and stroked Sherlock's head. Sherlock produced an inhuman sound somewhere between a moan and a drawn-out scream, but made no other motion, no other sign of life, except that his pulse shot up to 143. Mycroft instantly released his hand, but it took another full second for Sherlock to trail off as his pulse slowed, followed by shuddering gasps. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "I needed to show John so that he can help you."

"You can see the problem. We can't get any examinations done, physical or psychological. I don't think he's going to come out of it today." Sherlock still didn't seem to register what was going on around him, not even when John called his name, sitting right in front of his face.

**Mycroft's blog:**

Something's happened.

I don't know what. Sherlock is unresponsive, conscious, if only just. Staring into the distance, jaw slacked and pupils pinhole-thin. The only reaction we can get from him is an agonised moan to even the slightest touch. It isn't like yesterday when his senses were assaulting him. This is something far, far darker.

There was a thunderstorm last night, and I understand he reacts rather badly to sharp cracks of thunder as they trigger black memories of his torture, and with his hypersensitive state yesterday, as well as the fact that he has not had his medication, it's entirely possible that the weather created such extreme distress.

I find it difficult to be so helpless where my brother is concerned. Typically, pressure would soothe him, a hug, if you like, though with none of the emotional aspect, though I cannot at present even give him that.

I am certain of one thing, though. My brother is terrified beyond reason at present. And there's nothing I can do.

John sat quietly beside him for some time, thinking about what could have caused it. In the end, he tried speaking to Liam. Usually, when Sherlock was in a bad way, talking to Liam would help.

"Liam, can you hear me?" He whimpered in reply, though he didn't move at all. "Liam? It's John. Do you want to tell me what's wrong? It's okay, it's just me. The doctors have gone to do other things." He whimpered again, but didn't move.

John tried over and over, until his eyes started moving. "Come on, what's wrong?"

He continued to moan, which was, at best, acknowledgement of John's presence, more even than he'd given to Mycroft. His eyes looked around as if trying to find John, but he wasn't focussing, couldn't see his friend. He moaned again as if trying to call for help, but no words were formed.

Mycroft turned to John. "His friend—Liam's friend—Janelle was the one who found him. Kindly show him the video. I'm not leaving him." Jenkins nodded and led John to the security room.

"Okay, the power went out in the middle of the night and was out for about three hours. The first footage with movement was at about four in the morning, before the nurses with the medicine come around. Janelle was woken by the continuing storm and seemed to want to visit him."

On the video, the light from the door poured into the dark room and a shy voice called Liam's name. The woman John had seen being sedated earlier walked over to Sherlock, still on his stomach, halfway off the bed exactly as he'd been left. She squatted down.

"The storms are scary. Please play games with me until the thunder stops." Sherlock made no reply, of course, and Janelle reached to touch his shoulder. "Liam?" Sherlock produced that howling moan at her touch, which made Janelle scream, sending attendants running.

Jenkins turned the screen off. "Janelle seems just as traumatized, had to be sedated and when she woke up, she was still hysterical. But we don't know precisely in what way the storm triggered him so badly. Perhaps he'd had a nightmare about Moriarty torturing him. There's no way to tell until he comes out of it."

"I'll wait here and try my best." Jenkins nodded and left.

"I'm here. I won't leave. You can tell me what happened… when you feel better." John held his hand. He squeezed back, but didn't move again.

John watched some TV while he waited for him to come out of it. Flicking through the channels, he went past some childrens shows that triggered Sherlock, causing him to whimper and groan.  
>"Sorry." John quickly turned over to the next channel. '<em>Story telling with Richard Brooke- New series.'<em> He gasped.  
>"But he's dead. I.." There it was. Moriarty. Richard Brooke. He wasn't dead.<p>

Sherlock's pulse shot to 167 as the moan turned into a scream at the sound of Moriarty's voice.

"John, turn it off," Mycroft ordered, yanking the remote from John's hands and doing it himself. Sherlock was gasping for air, motionless but crying, and Mycroft made to hold him before he remembered the trouble it caused. "Sh—Liam, we're here. He's not here, you're safe, you're fine." Sherlock's pulse was slowing, but still hovered over 100, agonised. "We're here to protect you." Mycroft spoke softly to Sherlock, trying his best to wrestle his brother's emotions into calmness. "I…don't know how well you can hear me. I don't know if you can understand me. But…" He rubbed his face. "You've been what held our family together, Sherlock. Mother only came back because of your distress. And the year you were gone, I stayed with them. They fought every night. About you. Mother said it was Father's fault. Father said it was yours." Mycroft swallowed.

"_Don't you understand, Avery? He left because of the way you treated him."_

"_He left because he's a weakling. A coward. Defective."_

"_He left because of talk like that."_

"_Nonsense. He's just not as developed as Mycroft. He doesn't even have any friends, Clare. He starts fights. He skips school, saying the world hurts as if that were a good reason. He's never showed any interest in dating or sex, even during the raging hormonal storm of puberty. If those aren't the marks of a broken child, I don't know what are."_

The memory hurt, but not nearly as badly as the memory of Sherlock reuniting with his father after his months in Europe. Sherlock had looked up, vacantly, mumbling and clearly yearning for drugs, and their father had read it in his empty eyes and had hit him hard, the ring on his finger ripping into Sherlock's skin. The scar on his lip was still faintly visible to this day.

"We need you, Sherlock." Mycroft made to grab Sherlock's hand, but remembered the distress physical contact caused and instead began humming softly to him. "I will protect you until I die, my brother."

John sat in utter shock. "He's dead. He was _dead._ It's not possible. He's hurt him again… That's why he's like this. He's hurt him again. Even though this place is meant to be protected, he's got to him. Can't anybody do their job right?" He was breathing heavily and staring at Mycroft. "Why isn't he dead? This isn't right. How many times can a man be shot in the head before he dies?"

John was told to go and take a walk until he calmed down. Instead, he decided to call Zap. She had become one of his closet friends recently, and was always free to talk.  
>"I just don't understand, Zap. He was dead. He was shot right in the face, and now he's hurting your brother again."<br>"Hm. This is interesting, John, it really is. I need to find out how he's managing to do this. If he'd shot himself, then there'd be a definite explanation, but somebody else shot him. I need to find out if there's anything one can do to survive gunshot wounds to the head. Maybe some sort of surgery? I don't know."  
>John sat down on a bench out in the garden. "Yeah. Moran survived too, probably. Moriarty would be nowhere without Moran."<br>"His boyfriend?"  
>John tapped his foot. "I suppose. Moriarty is infatuated with Sherlock, though. It must be an open relationship or something. They're both messed up."<p>

When John got off the phone with Zap, he walked back through this building, signing in at the desk. He walked back up the corridor, and felt somebody shove him. He landed on the floor, in a closet.  
>"Hello, Doctor Watson." A familiar voice giggled. "You didn't do a very good job of killing me."<p>

Moriarty grinned at the look of shock on John's face. Something was off about the way he was speaking, like he'd had fillings done a few hours before. Not quite slurred, but not crisp, either. "Oh, no, don't get up. In fact, you can't." John realized that when he'd hit the floor, a needle had plunged into him. "Same recipe I've used on Sherlock, really quite effective, you know." He teetered on the tips of his toes. "Nice things, closets. Nice and…private." He leaned forward and kissed John on the lips gently, the way Sherlock did. "No one's going to find you here until the paralytic wears off. I would have been satisfied with just Sherlock, but I never got to finish with him properly. So I guess you'll have to do." John went cold, knowing what was about to happen—again—and Moriarty stood and took John's phone. "I've sent a text to Mycroft telling him you've gone home for the night. We aren't going to be disturbed."

John felt the room spin and he was pushed onto his front.  
>"Come on darling, smile." He was stripped and felt a familiar slicing sensation into his back. "Just marking what's mine, is all."<p>

He went through what seemed like years of abuse. Feeling the blood seeping out of his back and hearing the laugh made the voices come back. He wasn't sure about who was behind him until Moriarty sat in front of him on a chair. It was Sebastian behind him, and Jim was watching. Getting off on it.

He could hear Moriarty praising him while he masturbated at the image of Sebastian raping him. The medicine, or whatever he'd used to numb John had wore off. The searing pain caused him to scream. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You have him!"

Moriarty grimaced. "It's just not the same. Oh, yes, we have our moments, but since we both get off on it, it wasn't nearly as fantastic." He wiggled a little dance. "I think we're done here, Seb, for today." He kissed John again, the lip-brush only Sherlock ever gave, and stuck John again, leaving him in the closet semiconscious for the rest of the evening.

At seven o'clock, Sherlock's fingers grasped Hamish's synthetic fur desperately.

At nine, he started making incoherent babbling sounds.

At eleven, he sat up in bed and began trying to talk.

At one in the morning, just as John started to regain feeling in his fingers, Sherlock had a seizure, and no one knew why.

When he regained consciousness at four, they tried to take him for bathing. This resulted in several nurses sporting nasty bruises, an exasperated Doctor Jenkins, and a naked Sherlock running screaming incoherently to the main exit of the hospital, trying to escape, pounding on the doors like his life depended on it. They had to use a tranquiliser dart to get him to calm down, but the dose wasn't high enough to knock him out. He moaned and babbled as they bathed him, but had recovered enough by the time his bath was over to start fighting again, refusing even enough touch to help him dress himself, though he pulled his underwear and robe on, but he was too disjointed for anything else.

"Gwehhgh zzzzzhon?" He hiccupped, terrified. "Zzzzzhon!"

John had finally regained full feeling after they'd left him on the bathroom floor. He reached for his phone.

_I didn't text you last night. Moriarty and Moran. Not dead._

_-JW_

That was the most he could think of. His mind was racing. Time for his pills. He reached in his pocket, but of course, they were gone.

He stumbled back to Sherlock's room, where Mycroft was waiting outside. He walked straight past him and into the room. "They're not dead, Sherlock. They got me again. They survived." Avery growled in response, trying to force out words. "Calm down. We can do something. Anything. I don't know."

Mycroft saw the traces of blood on John's shirt. "How did they get in?"

Avery squinted, having trouble processing speech and sight, but managed a slurred "Imma clim." Mycroft escorted John to another bed, and the doctors asked him to remove his shirt. Once John did so, extremely reluctantly, Avery stared for a few moments, mouth opening and closing. "Neh, neh, imma clim, imma ctof hissssp-p-p-p-peen." His eyes were unfocussing and then he stared, Sherlock or Liam, noticing the wounds and tensing, vomiting and fainting—it was Liam. Mycroft stood, boiling anger beneath his icy exterior, smoothing down his suit.

"Send the security footage to my office. My people will go over it and find the deficiencies in your security system." He stared the nurses down with his whole fury, a frightening thing indeed, a darkness that John had never seen before. The nurses scampered to fetch the security guards and pass the message along.

**The blogs:**

**Mycroft: **

You have once again gone too far.

James Moriarty, at the risk of sounding like Avery, I am going to ensure that you are punished in the most painful way possible still allowed under the Geneva Convention.

Stop tormenting my brother and those he is closest to. I will find you and I will happily stand by while an equal Hell is put to you.

**Moriarty: **

I look forward to seeing you try.

If I don't get to you first.

Either way, I'm looking forward to our next meeting.

**Mycroft: **

I assure you, threatening me may be one of the most dangerous things you've ever done.

**Moriarty: **

Mr. Holmes, I will _destroy_ you.

The doctors split into groups, one group tending to Sherlock, Doctor Jenkins himself talking quietly to John. "Do you want to talk about what happened? To anyone? As I'm sure you know, we're among the foremost in psychiatric care, and even though you're not a resident, in light of your injuries, and whatever else may have happened, we'll be more than happy to help, if you need it."

"No. It's happened before. I'm used to it." He shrugged it off.

"Sherlock will be leaving with you today. Mr Holmes demands that he goes with him when he leaves." John nodded as Jenkins packed Sherlock's things up. "We apologize for everything."

John was taken back to Baker St. in a car, arranged by Mycroft. Sherlock was to return later— so he'd decided to clean up again, and take his meds.

After that was done, he sat in the chair quietly. He had done this a lot after the fall. Waiting. It always felt the same. Quiet, still, empty. Like he was the only one on earth. Usually, his attention would be quickly stolen by a knock on the door or Mrs Hudson, but today felt different. He let his mind wander back to the previous night, of most he couldn't remember. Trauma. He shrugged, tried to think back to the staff at the hospital. Had he missed them? No, he didn't think so.

_Might of worked it out, John. _

_Call me when you can._

_-Zap x_

John turned his phone off. He waited for about an hour before Mycroft escorted Sherlock upstairs. Sherlock smiled at the sight of home.

"Here, Sherlock. Let's have a seat." Mycroft's voice was not patronizing, just cautiously worded, simpler than usual for Sherlock's sake. Sherlock tilted his head, trying to understand what was said, and slowly staggered to his chair, flopping into it.

"Ma cuff, ewenna bing Mishup?" He was talking to Mycroft, but watching John. Mycroft nodded and went back downstairs. "Can peak. Hay nobby abe peak." He bit his lip, fighting the neural scramble. "You kay? Obvus. Not kay." Mycroft opened the door, one of his assistants bringing Sherlock's things up, and handed Hamish to Sherlock. "Givet' Zzzhon." Sherlock stood and handed Hamish to its former owner, half-functioning eyes begging John to take it.

John took it, standing up to embrace Sherlock. Sherlock didn't move, instead he mumbled into John's ear about missing him. "I'm guessing Mycroft told you what happened?" Sherlock nodded as he pulled away, and stumbled over to the chair opposite Johns.

Mycroft left pretty soon after, saying he would return later. John made Sherlock something to eat, gave him his meds and put the television for him. Sherlock didn't try to complain, nor did he shout at the tv. John sat quietly watching him, wondering what was going on in his head.

Sherlock was more lucid since he had taken his medicine, but obviously still distressed. He continued to watch the television in silence for some time, trying his best to understand the words. His vision was still messed up, too, but most of his thoughts were on John.

It was plain, to Sherlock, that John had repressed memories again. He seemed too at-ease for anything else, and Sherlock considered this to be a good thing. Without the trauma cluttering his own mind, he knew, he would have been able to think properly. But he couldn't repress it, couldn't delete it, no matter how hard he tried, and the harder he did, the more painful the memories became.

**Liam's blog:**

Home!

The Monsters were pain again exploding me, and John flowed rivers down his back. Darkness is hurting, Mycroft flew away, and I want to be a cloud. I want John to float away with me, cumulus. Happier than dirtwalker.

I wish healing like bent water could inside my soul. I ache and scream in my heart. John, too. But I know he forgets; good, mind-guardian saved him. My mind-guardian was burnt by the Monster.

But Louis and John and my violin and Johnston and safe again. Maybe Mycroft fights the demons at the doorway, stops their evil from creeping.

My words are blender. The Spider's handlightning smoothied my brain and I can't thoughts. Maybe evaporation and condensation will stop the stopping, though I never wanted to fly.

But at least only still three of me.

After about three hours, he turned to John, blinking in Liam's way. "Zzzhon, pleece lemmesee youh back. I nee t'kiss your hurs. Makum fee bed tar."

John slowly stood up and walked over to him, lifting up his shirt and turning around. Liam slowly kissed up his back, before wincing at the sight of the cuts. John sat down next to the chair, and put his head on the arm. "I didn't want you to know, but Mycroft told you before I could ask him not to." John looked up sadly. "They're never going to be stopped, are they? They're going to hurt us again and again, and there's nothing we can do. I'm scared. I'll admit it. I'm scared."

John went through the rest of the day, cooking, cleaning, comforting Sherlock and playing with Louis. He tried to block everything out. Sherlock observed this, as John could tell. He didn't want him to see him at his weakest.

Liam gave way to Sherlock, who mostly stared into the distance, then, in turn, to Avery, who tried to curse Moriarty with his inarticulate sounds. He phased to Sherlock again about nine that night, frowning, eating very little, just enough to ensure he didn't have an upset stomach with his medications. He hadn't been able to tell John that when he didn't have the medication, not only was he hearing Avery and Liam, but now he was hearing the voices of Avery's victims, their final words repeated endlessly. He wasn't going to tell John unless the medication failed to do its job.

John went to bed early, and Sherlock decided to read through John's old blog, through his first cases, but he couldn't make sense of the arbitrary shapes, and trying was giving him a headache. "Needa unblend m'wordds," he muttered.

Sherlock had crawled into John's bed, desperately needing some comfort, but still too unsettled for touch. He'd put Hamish between them and grew largely motionless with his arms crossed over his chest like a mummy, shaking slightly, uncomfortable with even John's breath on his face, but knew that the presence of someone he felt would protect him would eventually steady him. John woke up and muttered something, but not only was Sherlock too tired to figure it out, he figured it didn't matter.

Long after John had fallen back asleep, Sherlock still couldn't. His mind was racing, instincts telling him not to sleep because only bad things happened to those who did. Unfortunately, the later it got, the more his medications wore off, and soon the swirling voices returned, sending him into a sleepless spiral. Liam begged him to turn on the light, Avery to leave the house to kill one of Moriarty's minions. Avery's victims were there, as well, quietly, distantly, and there was no possible way Sherlock could sleep.

He rolled over, noticed the incoming dawn, and got out of bed with an unsteady sigh. John stirred at the movement, but Sherlock shushed him. "Can leap. You dream. Safe." He hated not being able to speak correctly, to communicate his intentions, but John seemed to get the message as he drifted off again.

When John came out of his room, half an hour later, Sherlock was on the sofa, lucid, eyes closed but not asleep, at the very most, relaxed. He heard John's tired footsteps and flung his sleeve down, plainly trying to guiltily hide that he had shot up. He wasn't going to volunteer the information if John didn't ask, but his mind was free from any other minds, free from the voices, free from fear, free from the former jumble—he found himself thinking clearly and without trouble in choosing words. He was sure he could speak correctly again. The cocaine had, it seemed, repaired him. So now he waited for John to mention the dilated eyes, the shoe-string tourniquet, the eerie peace he was sure John could see.

John looked at him confused. "…Hello. You okay?" He sat down and rubbed his eyes. "You look odd. You haven't been doing anything you shouldn't, have you?" He frowned, then stood up and went to the kitchen. Sherlock's silence answered his question.

He came back in with tea, for the both of them. "Drink this. I'm going to call Mycroft in a moment." He sat down and sipped at his tea. He noticed that Sherlock was frowning at his calmness. "There's no point in me shouting. You just carry on doing it, so I'm not going to bother." A look of guilt— something John had never seen on him, flickered across Sherlock's face. "It seems I can't win with you, no matter how hard I try. Me and Molly tried so hard, don't you remember? She contacted every dealer in the area and just outside the area and told them not to serve you because they would go to prison. She even went to your dealers and slapped death threats on them. No matter what I do, what she does, what anybody else does; you don't stop do you? I know this is difficult, beyond difficult, but you just don't care. I slaved over you for weeks, making sure you didn't overdose, or choke on your own vomit, and…" He took a deep breath, trying to remain calm- "And you just don't care. Not one little bit. So maybe your brother can help, because I'm beyond trying to stop you from doing this."

After a long phone call to Mycroft, John noticed that Sherlock had gone to his room, _to sulk, no doubt._ He shook his head, and took his pills, and then went in to talk to him.  
>"Mycroft wants you to stay with him for a few days. It won't help but he at least wants to feel like he's tried."<p>

"For God's sake, John. One injection is not a relapse." Sherlock was angry that John was angry. _Why can't he understand?_ "It was just the once. Just enough to...to fix my head. I couldn't speak, I couldn't think, I couldn't express myself. A powerful stimulant was just enough to shock my synapses into working correctly." He frowned. "I'm not-I don't-I do want more, but I'm not going to have it. I can control it. It wasn't too-it wasn't my usual dose, not by a lot. Just enough to fix my head." He stood and crossed to the window, voice level, body language giving away his guilty conscience and his discomfort. "I'm tired of rationalizing. Suffice it to say that I considered this administration to be medicinal."

"One always turns into more. That one will always make you want more, because when it wears off you feel dreadful again. I don't know where you got it, or when you got it, but I cleaned this place from top to bottom and-" He turned round, things clicking into place. "Mycroft." Sherlock didn't say anything, instead he watched John quietly.

After another long— this time angry- call to Mycroft, John returned to Sherlock's room, red in the face. "You won't be staying with him. You'll be staying here. And if I find another scrap of that shit in this flat, I'm leaving."

"Mycroft had nothing to do with it," Sherlock muttered. "And there isn't any more. I am well aware of the dangers of chemical dependency," he half-spat. "Every member of my mother's family was an addict of one type or another. My uncle died from a heroin overdose when I was twelve. Mother quit ecstasy when she started dating Father. Their father was an alcoholic. A gentle alcoholic, but an alcoholic nonetheless. I am very, very aware of the potency of chemicals." He turned and faced John, staring him down. "It stopped the v-" He broke eye contact, biting his lip. "I'm fine, I'll be fine, I'm not going to relapse. Again. And-" He shuddered slightly, eyes unfocussing momentarily. "Don't you dare threaten to leave." Avery grabbed John's arms so hard he was bruising him. "Don't you set foot over that threshold with the intent to never come back, because if you do, you'll hurt him." He leaned forward to whisper in John's ear. "You know what I do to people who hurt Sherlock."

"Do it. I don't care. I've been through enough in the past few days, don't you think? You do whatever you want. It's nothing I won't eventually do to myself." He pulled his arm away and walked out of the room, into his own. He closed the door quietly and sat on his bed. He was still tired, but didn't dare to give into it, as he'd probably be killed in his sleep.

He decided to read, something he hadn't done in a while. He flicked through the pages of many books, trying to find something, anything that could take his mind off the other night. Nothing. He lay back on the bed, and before he knew it, he was asleep.

He woke up to Avery sitting on the end of his bed, watching him, silently. "What do you want?" John looked up before turning to face the wall. Avery slid behind him, putting one arm around him. John didn't move his arm, nor did he pull away. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, ignoring the steady breathing on the back of his neck.  
>"You know I don't want to hurt him, don't you? I never have. He's hurting me, though. Not that he cares."<p>

"He doesn't realize he's doing it," Avery breathed. He, too, was cautious of touch, though not nearly as much as Sherlock was. "Funny. The cocaine normally keeps me from coming forward, but he got so upset that it was easy." He licked John, but stopped when John tensed. "He thinks of himself first. It's not intentional selfishness, it's just how his mind works. A twisted sense of self-preservation." Avery put his hands to John's shoulders, rubbing them gently. "He doesn't notice how much pain he's put you through. And it's nice that you still want to stay with him, trust me, I admire that, but it's sort of hard to understand. And you should probably tell him how you feel. Tell him you feel like shit when he treats you like this. Tell him you feel like scooping your heart out. Or his. And," he said, voice incalculably cruel, "Don't you dare think of offing yourself. You have no idea what that would do to all of us. You're the only thing keeping him as sane as he is. If he heard you say that, he'd lose his mind. And it's hard from me to keep from slapping you stupid when you talk like that. I will not let you die. I'll put you in a coma before I'd give you that chance." He reached close again from behind, his hands shaking slightly at the thought of losing John. There was silence for a few moments as he let the words sink in. "What can I do to help you? I figure sex is currently out of the question, but is there anything else?" He smirked. "Aside from Moriarty's head on a pike, with Moran's nuts between his teeth. Little out of reach at present."

"Just stay here. Like this. I don't want to feel alone. I know it's not what you like to do, but it's what I need." Avery put his head on John's shoulder and pulled him closer. "Thank you." John mumbled. Avery didn't say anything, and let John drift off back to sleep.

John dreamed he was walking down a hallway, no, running. Running towards the sound of a screaming Sherlock. He was pulled into a closet, and pinned down. He could hear the screams of Sherlock from around the building as he was being violated. John couldn't see who it was behind him, but something in his mind kept telling him that it was somebody he held close. He heard the crying of a young child in the distance, begging the person to stop hurting John. It was Liam. John waited for Avery to come in, to come in and hurt whoever was hurting him. He waited for the person to stop, and when he did, he turned around to look at him. The reason Avery had not come to help him, was because he was doing the deed himself.  
>Sherlock's screams stopped, and he heard laughing in the background. He waited for whoever it was to come and walk in, to talk to Avery. It was Sherlock.<br>"Well done, Liam." John saw Liam come out from behind a bookshelf, and Sherlock ruffled his hair. Avery was doing his belt up. He turned John over to look up at the three of them. "Emotional, mental, physical abuse. You get it from all of us." John swallowed and tried to speak, but he couldn't. "We've been doing it to you for a long time John, why would we let you leave now?"

John woke up, screaming, causing Avery to nearly fall off the bed in fright.

"What the fuck were you dreaming? You look like you've-like I've slaughtered Sherlock or something!" Avery's eyes were wide, pupils contracted. He'd never admit it, but John's screaming rattled him to the core. John screamed again, less powerfully, and Avery clapped his hand over John's mouth. "Shut up! Just shut the hell up! Don't make me sedate you!" They stayed in that position for some time, until John stopped. "Fine now?" Avery was breathing heavily, and stood up, walking to the kitchen. "I need a smoke. I need a few smokes. I need a whole God-damn pack." He lit up and stared at John. "Fuck, John." He caught John's unsettled look, and stared, leaning forward and puffing furiously. "What the hell is wrong with you? It's not just what happened. Something else. Talk."

"Nothing." John gasped for air before he lay back down. Avery flicked his cigarette out of the window before lying down next to him, demanding to know. "Nothing. Just nightmares. Moriarty did some stuff to me when he… you know. Stuff that only you and Sherlock do. Which means he's watching us." Avery took a sharp intake of breath before shaking his head. John could tell that even Avery was trying to stay calm for his sake. "I know you want to rip him apart, but it's not that simple. I shot him and Moran in the head, they've done something to survive it. Nothing we do will help." Avery sat up and growled. "Please, listen. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt." Avery turned round suddenly, kissed john and pinned him to the bed. John panicked, pushing him away. Avery raised one eyebrow in a sort of 'that's why I'm angry' way, before he lay down next to him again, dropping off to sleep.

Avery, too, fell asleep. He was disembodied, floating as a tiny pinprick of dust in the hotel in France. He could feel that the others were there, too, somewhere, just consciousnesses. It felt good to be separate, but something was very, very wrong and he could feel it. John burst in and the lights switched on.

"Aah, Doctor Watson," came Moriarty's voice. "I assume you told him you were coming."

"I may have said that, yeah."

"Goooooood," Moriarty whispered. John whipped his gun out of his pocket, aimed it at Moriarty, and fired. What resulted was a comedy prop gun's flag reading "bang!" sticking out of the barrel, and both Moriarty and John dissolved into giggling fits.

John was growing, morphing, and suddenly he was Moran. "Everything just like you said, boss. Even Sherlock Holmes doesn't suspect a thing."

Avery did not scream when he woke. He did nothing. He had a minor moment of sleep paralysis, which reminded him of the past, and instantly he was in a cold sweat, concerned that Moriarty had drugged him again. When he did come out of it, his first reaction was to get as far from Moran/John as possible. Everything made sense to him now, at least as far as Moriarty's survival was concerned. John was in on it. John hadn't shot them. He'd faked the whole thing. Moriarty was more than capable of staging his own death-if Sherlock could do it on the fly, Moriarty would have had more than enough time to arrange something. No one was trustworthy.

_What about My? _ The ghostly vision of Liam stood before him, terrified, desperately trying to think of someone he could place his confidence in.

_(P-please don't hurt me!)_

"No. Controlling bastard." Avery was sitting in his chair, arms wrapped around his legs, pulling him into a ball, rocking slightly. Because he had been with John all morning and into the afternoon, he'd skipped all of his medication, and the paranoid delusions were some of the worst yet.

_Molly._ Sherlock was offering his suggestion. _She hasn't hurt us._

_(I was just following orders! There's no-AHGH!)_

"Drug ultimatum. Threw it away."

_Mrs. Hudson?_

_(Who are you?)_

"Too close."

_(That's a knife. Oh, God, what-)_

_Natalia._

"Bitch left me for dead."

_...Mummy?_

Avery laughed loudly and insecurely at Liam's suggestion of staying with his mother.

_We can't stay here. Nowhere is safe. No matter where we go, there will always be someone there to hurt us._

_(For God's sake, show some mercy!)_

"Sister. Zap." He fumbled and took out his phone, nervously sending a text to her.

_need somewhere to stay, somewhere safe. someone I can trust. you've not wronged me yet. I'm coming. -Avery_

He ran downstairs and into a cab, giving the driver an address three houses down from Zap's current residence (_Mustn't let them know where I'm going_), a small flat Mycroft had rented for her until she found permanent lodging. He half-barged in, shoving her aside and drawing the blinds before speaking.

"Is it safe? Completely, utterly safe? No bugs? Tell me!" He'd grabbed her arms, shaking her slightly until she answered that there wasn't anything there. He nodded and yanked out the power cords for the television ("How do you think they know how many people tuned into what programme?"). He spun on her, registering the hand behind her back, and backhandedly slapped her. "Don't think I don't know you're texting him, and don't you fucking dare hit send." He was swaying as he stood, mind spinning with dark possibilities (_A traitor so soon?_). He stared her down (_No! Don't hurt her! She's nice, she's a friend, she's an ally, I think!/We don't need another black mark to my record. No confirmation she's done anything against us...yet./Who are you?/Show some mercy!/Oh, God, what-/I was just following orders!_), fighting his paranoia, eyes wild and manic, before finally speaking.

"They're going to get me. I can't trust anyone. Even John's in league with them. Stockholm Syndrome. Manipulated. He can't see it, no one sees it, no one can stop them, they're all working for Moriarty, they're all going to lead him to me."

**Avery's blog:**

nowhere is safe, I can't trust anyone, I can't trust John, can't trust Mycroft, can't trust anyone at all, can barely trust myself, why the hell am I still here? I have to leave, go somewhere safe, somewhere they'll never find me.

they're working for him, they have been all along, how else would he keep finding me unless they've told him? I've been blind, I've been stupid, it's obvious! it's the only explanation of all the facts!

John claims to have shot and killed Moriarty and Moran. no witnesses, no proof, and they come "back to life"—THEY COULD NOT HAVE EVER DIED

they only found me in the mental hospital after John and Mycroft visited

no matter where I go, they find me—I have not been alone, with the exception of the hospital, since this began

John is uncomfortable around me. he says he's going to end up hurt or worse but he stays. why? HE'S SPYING

Hussey was obviously under Moriarty's pay, why else would he have given me an experimental electroshock which could—and did—lead to severe mental illness (schizophrenia with extreme hallucinations)

the same is true of whatever pharmacist doled out my pills, dosing me with something, I just kept getting worse

Moriarty did something to kill Father. he was dying but said he had six months. not true. he didn't even have one. (not sure how killing Father would get to me. I hated the fleabag with everything I am.)

I have to get away, go somewhere they won't find me, but how do I know that the strangers on the street aren't his spies? nowhere is safe, no one is safe, there may be one person I can trust, but I'm not telling anyone but them.

"You're such a dick, Avery." Zapharia usually never passed judgement on her brother, for fear of his response, but enough was enough. "Sit down. Take your pills. Mycroft had spares brought here and to his own place in case you stayed." Avery snarled, laughed, and then sat down. When Zap reached her hand out with the pills he smacked it away, knocking them onto the floor. He was shaking his head, rocking back on fourth slightly. "John isn't in on anything. I'd know. Me and him are close friends, and I trust him. You ought to, and the fact that you don't is hurtful." Avery ignored her, and stared at the wall, knife in hand. "He's been there from the day he met Sherlock, and didn't leave when you turned up. He wouldn't hurt you. In fact, he's explained exactly what happened with Moriarty, no person would fake that. John isn't a liar." Avery stood up and pushed her to the sofa, before walking over to the sofa.

She walked up behind him, trying to hug him, but instead, he struck her across the face. She calmly got back up, waited for Avery to turn around, before knocking the frail man out with a closed fist.

He hit the ground with a thud, the last thought in his mind _I/we/you have no one_. He was still out when Mycroft rang the doorbell, and Zap let him in.

"I was able to access his last text message," he said by way of explanation. He saw the bruise forming on Sherlock's face, and frowned. "An attack of extreme paranoia brought on by minor withdrawal from antipsychotic medications and a cocaine crash." Mycroft phoned John, telling him where Sherlock was and asking him to come as soon as possible. Avery(?) moaned and twitched once, but did not regain consciousness until after John arrived. When he did, the little bit of paranoia hit and Avery flung Zap to the ground, pinning her with his knees, holding his knife to her throat and grunting with primal fear. The blade cut into her skin-not deep enough to cause serious damage, but enough to draw blood.

_Stop, Avery. Witnesses._

The same fear was in her eyes as had been in some of the more stoic of his victims. He was frozen but shaking, the knife vibrating dangerously.

"You told them! Where I was, you betrayed me! How ca-" His eyes blurred, face softened, and he threw the knife, burying the point in the wood floor-Sherlock. "I-just-stay away from me, all of you! I don't know what you could possibly gain from all of this, but congratulations, I'm outnumbered, you've got me in the corner, so stop playing games and do whatever it is you've set out to do."

Zap covered her neck with a tissue before speaking. "We're not doing anything. We're trying to look after you, but we need to defend ourselves. What's so hard to believe about that? We love you, as much as you hate to believe it. John loves you more than we ever could."

Mycroft refused to put John at harm, so he took Sherlock back to his home with Zapharia.

John sat at home, wondering what was going on.

_Come home, please. What have I done? If you want me to leave, I will. But don't doubt that I love you._

_-John_

He slipped his phone into his pocket, before packing his bags, and walking out.

Sherlock had fought against going with Mycroft, physically, but eventually gave in as his brother had him in a chokehold and he was losing consciousness.

_I told you he couldn't be trusted._

_(That's a knife!)_

As the sparkles of oxygen deprivation started to fade, he took out his phone (_Stupid! He tracked me._) and fumbled a reply.

_You know perfectly well what you've done. You've sold me out. You never killed him, you're in league with him. Only explanation. How else would they keep finding me?  
>SH<em>

"Help me," Liam managed to force through before Sherlock reemerged. "They won't help, they'll never help, so don't you betray me too!" He struggled with the door handle, but the car was child-locked. He was all alone in the backseat-Mycroft hadn't wanted to risk Zap's safety, either. "Let me out of here!"

"A moving car at seventy miles an hour is hardly the best place to be jumping out of." Mycroft's tone was steady as Sherlock flailed around the backseat, convinced he was being taken somewhere that he'd never see daylight again, somewhere Moriarty could do as he pleased. He broke the window, showering himself with glass, and tried to scramble out of it, cutting himself rather deeply in some spots. Fortunately, Mycroft had armed Zap with a tranquiliser gun, and she knocked him out.

"Nnooooo..." He slumped, unconscious, wind tousling his hair as his head was partly out the window, as were both of his arms.

The next thing he registered was the sensation of softness and the smell of his childhood. Mycroft had inherited the family mansion, and he'd decided that it was probably the best place right now. Sherlock was in a four-poster bed, and recognized the room. His room. He'd spent whole days in here, hiding from his mind, his senses going wild with activity, and Mycroft had left everything the same as it had been when he'd left for university. He tried to stand, to get off the bed, but the tranquiliser had made his legs weak, and he collapsed. He heard the sound of keys jangling, and the door opened. Mycroft stood, cautiously waiting to see who was dominant. "Sherlock?"

"Mmmy coff." Sherlock shook his head to clear it. "Mycroft. Why am I home?"

"We thought, under the circumstances, that it was probably the best place for you to be. Baker Street lacks the tactile connections of a childhood home." He flashed a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Anxious. Betrayed. Not sure if I can trust you. Or anyone."

"But not...violent?"

"No."

"Good." He helped Sherlock to his feet and back into bed. "You need to rest, Sherlock. Take your pills first." Sherlock reluctantly followed orders, feeling too defeated to care about the fact he might be swallowing deadly poison. At this point, it didn't matter to him. He'd lost. But he lay back into the bed and fell back to sleep.

John didn't know how to respond. Clearly, their friendship could go no further if Sherlock didn't trust him.

_You won't see me again, at least not unless you come and look for me. It's mostly been a pleasure knowing you, Sherlock Holmes. Even though you left body parts in the fridge and burned my things. Even though you were hardly yourself. I came to care for all of you. The past few years have really been ones I will never forget. I know you'll be fine under your brothers care. I only wish you'd had a little more faith in me. Remember that I love you._

_-John. _

He wasn't sure where he was going, but after leaving Mrs Hudson a note on the table, he could hardly go back. She wouldn't miss him, though. It'd be just like it used to be, Sherlock and her, sitting around, drinking tea, talking about cases. John never really fit in the picture, what with his traumas and his twitches. No, they'd be just fine. Sherlock would get back on his feet, and nobody would think anything was wrong. He didn't need John, just like he didn't need Irene, or Natalia.

Sherlock's medicated dreams were strangely relaxed, like the medication had eased away the knots. But there were still whispers of trouble, still tendrils of pain on the outsides of his thoughts, something trying to break through. He rolled over and sat up, the hints of something whispering in his mind, but the medicines were holding it back, if just. He picked up his phone and read John's message. He read it again, just to make sure he was reading it correctly.

_Whhat are youo doing?  
>S<em>

He'd got the message, hands shaking as he sent his reply. He was panicking again, he could feel it.

_I said it was just a matter of time before he walked out. Everyone always has._

He staggered out of his room, half fell down the stairs, and into the bathroom. "Medicine, pills, sedative, where's the sedative?" He left the bathroom in a mess of scattered thermometer covers, cold medicines, bandages, and toothpaste and went to the kitchen, pouring a very large glass of cognac (he hated the stuff, but it was what Mycroft had on hand), and drinking it far more quickly than it was meant to be ingested. Mycroft interrupted, catching him after the third glass.

"What are you doing?"

"Sedating myself."

"Why?"

Sherlock threw his phone at Mycroft for him to read the message.

"Ah." He took out his own phone.

_Doctor Watson, don't do anything rash. He was recovering from his bout of paranoia. Now he's drinking.  
>MH<em>

"Ev'ry one always leaves. Mother. Natalia. Victor. Everyone I try to care about." Sherlock slumped down in the chair, mind feeling as though it was dampened with a blanket, and finished his glass. "Why do I bother?"

Zapharia pushed Mycroft out of the room before sitting opposite Sherlock. "Brother, I know you'll never care for me like you do for Mycroft, because you don't know me as well, but…" Sherlock knocked back another glass. "But I'd like to have my word, if I may." Sherlock nodded, before refilling his glass.  
>"John is one of the most loyal people I have ever had the pleasure to meet in my life. I see the way he looks at you, and I don't understand it. I think that's because we can't. But one thing I do understand is that, he would never betray you. We have had many conversations about how much he cares, and I can tell he is being truthful. You need to think about everything he has done for you, and everything he has ever said to you. Just because you've been left with a logical answer, does not mean it is the correct one."<br>She walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock to think.

John was sat in a bar, somewhere just outside central London. He was perfectly aware that Mycroft knew where he was, and he was also perfectly aware of the attractive young blonde staring over at him from the bar. He knocked back another shot— his seventh so far, before turning to look at the window. Anybody could see that this man was not in his right mind, what with his bloodshot eyes and the tray of shots in front of him. That did not stop people trying to talk to him though, mostly women. His excuses not to talk to them were things that he used to be ashamed of admitting. "In love with my best friend.", "Taken.", "Can't hold down a relationship.", "Gay, no, straight, no. Forget it.".  
>John wasn't sure of anything. He looked at his watch, it was clocking on ten, meaning Mycroft would be coming to collect him soon, whether he liked it or not.<p>

After John had finished his tray of shots, he stumbled outside. There was a young couple kissing on a bench outside. He groaned as he staggered up to a man smoking to ask for a cigarette. As he was smoking, Mycroft pulled up in a car, demanding he got in. "Nno. Your brother knowss what hesdone, I don't wanna be near him!" John shouted and pointed, before falling down onto the floor. Mycroft got up and pulled him into the car, stubbing his cigarette out.

"Sometimes I think I've taken on too much," Mycroft muttered. He had Anthea take John to a hotel where she could keep an eye on him under the guise of girlfriend, while he himself headed home to make sure Sherlock was fine.

Sherlock was slumped in the chair by the fireplace, passed out, his hand weakly clutching his dripping glass a few inches above the floor. Mycroft gingerly took the glass, causing muttering from Sherlock, and placed a blanket over Sherlock's sleeping form before himself taking a small glass of cognac.

"Oh, dear brother, life has never been easy for us, has it?"

Anthea sat in the chair by the bed, watching John sleep. It was obvious he was having a bad dream, twitching and sometimes crying out. She texted Mycroft, letting him know about John's nightmare, and simply waited until he woke up, watching a chick flick that happened to be on with a smile. It would be hours yet before the alcohol wore off, but she wasn't going to doze off. She'd been on stakeouts before, and this was no different, in the long run. At least this time, she had a television set.

When John woke up in the morning, he was given pills by Anthea. "You're at a hotel, before you ask. Here are your pills, Paracetamol and Aspirin. You'll need them." She sipped her coffee before handing John his. "You'll be going to Mr Holmes' house today. Get ready. Clothes in this bag. Breakfast will be ready when you get there."

When John was ready, he put sunglasses on and left the hotel. "Right. Let's leave." She smiled at him and led him towards the car. "Get in."

They arrived at Mycroft's home, and John was asleep in the back of the car. "Wake up, Doctor Watson. We're here." John stumbled into the house, his head spinning. Zap was reading at the desk in the front of the house. "Hello, John. Good luck speaking to him." John sighed and paced up to Mycroft.

Mycroft's look was semi-accusing. "He's not at all well. He was teetering on the brink of a breakdown, and your leaving may have pushed him over the edge. He's alright at the moment because of his pills and the alcohol, but don't agitate him if you can help it." He led John to Sherlock's bedroom, where he was given a chair. "Talk it through with him," Mycroft whispered.

"Mmwhat?" Sherlock sat up, wincing at the click of the door. "Oh. You." He moved to the far corner of the bed, clutching a pillow and rubbing his head. He spoke very slowly, forcing himself to be rational. "Paranoia. Never had an attack before. Avery dreamed that you were working for Moran. Got to me. Obviously." He chuckled bitterly. "Thing is, it makes sense. And then...you left, and it confirmed things. Dark things." Sherlock gulped, his head visibly shaking and his speech obviously difficult to keep from growing hysterical. "I don't have friends. Before you, the closest thing I had was Victor. Before him, Natalia. Before her, nothing. Natalia dumped me, left me for dead in a foreign country, having gotten me addicted to cocaine. Victor and I drifted apart after university. The last time I saw Victor, he was a corpse with a bullet through his head, a bullet he put there after killing his family." His eyes glazed with the memory of the crime scene, his only friend dead by his own hand, and he couldn't help but picture John the same way-Mrs. Hudson, Harry, and Mycroft all lying dead in 221B, John with the gun, pulling the trigger as the gun sat to his temple. The vision caused Sherlock to not be able to speak for a few moments, breathing heavily, Liam screaming in his head at the horrible images. "So you see why I find it hard to trust. I know that eventually, everyone is going to leave or betray me or forget me. The only person steady in my life has been Mycroft. And he's more than just a little overbearing at times. I don't have friends because I can't. No one seems to _prefer_ my company, they merely _tolerate_ it, and that for some ulterior motive. I just haven't worked yours out yet, but I know it's there." He wasn't consciously moving from the bed, the hangover and fright taking control, causing his voice to break. "And one day-yesterday, in fact-I'll lose control and you'll leave. You don't even want to be here, I can see it in your eyes, in the look Mycroft gave you. It might be five days, it might be fifty years, but I'm going to die alone and hated. A fact I have long accepted."

John sat down. "I regret leaving. I just thought that you hated me. Or as close as you could come to hate, anyway." Sherlock grunted something about the paranoia. "I don't know what else I could have done. I thought, if you didn't trust me, the person you're mean't to trust most in the world, then what is the use of me?" John didn't move closer to him, as he could feel how awkward the situation was. "I don't have ulterior motives, Sherlock. I love you, that's plain and simple. I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. In fact, I've lost you." He sighed and put his head in his hands. "So I guess I'll find another place to live. You won't have to see me again, if that's what you want. You can go back to how you were, or even stay here with Mycroft."

"You've lost me," Sherlock repeated, starting to lose any composure. "You're leaving." His shaking grew worse, far worse. "You're going away. Forever. I'll never-you're gone. Lighthouse switching off, anchor retracted, armor pierced."

_Don't let him leave._ It was the only voice he'd heard since waking up with a hangover, Liam's voice, desperate, almost hysterical.

And then, Moriarty's voice, just a whisper, a sinister whisper. Y_es, he's leaving, and then you and I will have loads of fun together, and nothing to stop us. All according to plan. _ Sherlock let out a howl as he tensed and fell back into his bed, shaking so badly a layman might mistake it for a seizure. It wasn't just the thought of endless rapes without someone saving him. It was the fact that Moriarty was in his mind at all, that he would never be free of the terror, that John, the only reason he'd kept himself alive for so long, was going to leave him.

Sherlock had practically collapsed, both physically and mentally. Mycroft rushed to him, cradling him. "Sherlock, what comes after hydrogen?"

"Wh-what?" Sherlock could barely focus on Mycroft at all.

"Hydrogen, one proton, one electron. What comes after it?" Mycroft asked as though lives depended on it.

"H-h-helium." Sherlock swallowed. "Helium comes after hydrogen."

"Then what?"

"Lith-thium."

"Good. And the next five?"

"Ber-ryllium. Boron. Carbon. Ni-ni-nitrogen, then oxygen."

Mycroft was still rocking Sherlock gently, trying to tame the wild monsters in his little brother's mind. "And after those?" Sherlock struggled to think. "Sherlock, I need to know the next five elements."

"F-f-fluorine. Neon. Sodium. Magnesium. Aluminum. Then come silicon and phosphorous. Sulphur, chlorine, and krypton."

"Argon, Sherlock. Argon."

Sherlock screwed up his face in concentration. "Yes. Argon. Potassium, calcium, scandium, titanium, vanadium." They went on like this for some time, reciting the entire periodic table of elements in groups of five, Sherlock getting one wrong every so often and Mycroft gently correcting him. Slowly, John was able to see that it was calming Sherlock, and just as he finished the last one, he drifted off to sleep.

Mycroft tucked Sherlock in before taking John aside, whispering quietly enough to keep Sherlock from waking back up. "It's always calmed him, when things were changing, when nothing seemed steady for him. It's a universal constant. Something that never changes. An anchor, if you like. Not as effective as yourself, but it seems to work all the same. You have to stay with him, somehow. He needs you more than he says, particularly now."

"I will stay. I just… I didn't know what to do. He was accusing me, the person he said he could trust the most, of conspiring against him. I wasn't prepared for it. I made a mistake." Mycroft raised an eyebrow and left the room.

John sat back on the bed, thinking, for about ten minutes, until there was a knock on the door. Zap popped her head around the door, with a small smile.  
>"Hello, John. You don't mind if I come to talk to you, do you?" John shook his head and gestured to a chair situated opposite him.<br>"Right. I assume you two have broken up?" John nodded. "I see. Well, you have to make up. You know it was a delusion. You love him, and as much as he denies it, or says he can't feel it, deep down, he loves you too." He shook his head.  
>"I know, Zap. He doesn't love me, though." He turned to look at Sherlock, who was snoring softly. "I wish he did, but it's not possible for him. I understand that." He turned back to look at her with sad eyes.<br>"Maybe you should go on holiday? Mycroft suggested it… By yourself. For a while. He'd pay for it and everything." John shook his head again.  
>"I couldn't. I won't leave him. Even though he won't take me back, I won't leave. I promised him."<br>Mycroft coughed from the doorway, raising his eyebrows.

"Whatever you feel is best, Doctor Watson, though I understand you had already made plans to leave Baker Street. I am as concerned for him as you are." He shut the door behind them, leaving Sherlock some time to rest. "I would highly advise against a permanent departure, as he has…abandonment issues. However, both he and I have felt that if you were given some time on your own, it might help you. His term was detox." Mycroft sat on the sofa. "You would, of course, continue to be in contact if needed, and I would monitor him here." Mycroft was conflicted. On the one hand, he knew that Sherlock's behaviour was practically toxic—he couldn't help it, it just was—but on the other, he knew that what Sherlock needed most was to feel safe in the knowledge that his friends and family cared for him, no matter what. "I am not certain what course of action to recommend, to be frank. If you were to leave, he would—"

"My?" Liam had come to the door, visibly upset and exhausted. "I'm scared." He came and sat on the sofa, leaning on John for both physical and emotional support. "I feel like everyone's going to hurt me. Like everyone's got the Monsters for friends and they're going to tell the Monsters where I am. I don't like it. It sort of makes sense but it feels wrong so I won't listen to my head but please help me, I'm so scared." He hiccuped, the way he did when terrified. "And Avery…if he had been smoking, if I hadn't been able to scream at him, he would have killed you. All of you. Even John." He wiped a tear away and sniffled. "I think Sherlock didn't mind either." He curled into a ball, clutching John's shirt. "Please help me. Please make me not afraid."

"I'm staying, Mycroft." John put his arms around Liam, allowing him to cling onto his shirt. "I understand that I totally overreacted, and lost my relationship, but I didn't lose my friendship with him." He patted Liam softly on the back, calming him down. Zap stood quietly, just watching them. Liam ran over to her and hugged her.  
>"It'll be okay, Liam. John would never hurt you, nor would I. You just need to remember that when your mind says otherwise."<p> 


	12. Interpersonal Turmoil

A few hours later, Sherlock was reading in the library of Mycrofts house. John had decided to contact Lestrade for some cases, as a surprise for him.  
>"Come on, Greg. You know he's not been himself for a long time, this would be good for him. Please."<br>"Alright, John. But one case. It won't be a big one until we see he's back to normal."  
>"Right. Thanks."<br>"I'll email you the details. Bye."

John had printed out all the case notes and strolled into the library. "Sherlock, I have a surprise for you." Sherlock made a humming noise to indicate that he was far too interested in his book. John placed the case notes down on the table and waited for him to look up.

"Case," Sherlock said, an observation, not a question. He took a deep breath, still feeling unnerved and rather wary, but not anywhere near the panic mode of the previous two days. He flipped it open, and was greeted with crime scene photographs and an email.

The bodies (or what was left of them) were covered in refuse, plainly out of sewers, half-rotted and partially rat-eaten. The email was from Lestrade.

_Good to hear you're back on your feet, so to speak._

_We've got the remains of three separate bodies, all confirmed coma patients who died in the hospital from illness. As I'm sure you know, it's not exactly normal for a dead coma patient to end up in a sewer, so we're pretty sure there's some sort of foul play at work._

_I know it's not your usual stuff, but we could use your help on this, and God knows you need something._

_DI Lestrade_

Sherlock stared at the photographs. "I assume you've read the email," he said to John. Before waiting for a reply, he took out his phone and texted Lestrade:

_Re: case  
>I'll take it. Will be at NSY ASAP<br>SH_

He stood and returned to his bedroom, changing into his more normal clothing, and nodded to John, a thank you. "Coming?" He made three steps forward before turning back. "One moment—midday medication." He poured a single pill from his dispenser and dry swallowed before bounding out the door, some hint of his old enthusiasm back.

"Of course, if you want me to." Sherlock frowned and muttered his usual _obvious_ comment, before sliding into one of Mycrofts cars.

They reached the location, one that John had never been to before, within about half an hour. Sherlock nearly jumped out of the car with excitement, although he'd never admit to it. Before John had even undone his seatbelt, Sherlock was holding the door open.

"You have five minutes to tell me as much as you can, go on." Lestrade left Sherlock too look around while he spoke to John. "It's like having a child, isn't it? 'You can have five more minutes to play' and the like." John nodded.  
>"It's good though. I haven't seen him this happy in months. I think it'll be good for him to come back to work. He needs it."<p>

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the smell of fecal-encrusted rotting flesh. "Smells fantastic," he quipped. He kneeled down in front of the remains, no fingers or toes, and not enough face left from the rats to get an identity. Something was missing, something was wrong…

"Liver. Where's her liver? Wasn't eaten by the rats." Sherlock bent down more closely.

_We're dangerously exposed when you do that._

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't anticipating Avery's voice. He shook his head slightly to try to push it to the back of his mind.

"Killer had medical training," he said, standing up. "Come on, look. There are surgical cuts on the torso, while the actual dismemberment was intended to throw off that observation."

"So, what?" John asked dimly. Sherlock sighed and pulled him down to look at the body. It smelled revolting, much worse than he'd expected. "Lovely." He choked out. Sherlock asked him to tell him as much as he could from the body. "So, her livers missing. A trophy? Maybe this killer takes a part from each of his victims. The toes and fingers are missing, but that'll be from the rats. The wound where the liver should be is faked, you can tell by the small blade marks around it… That's all I have really. Apart from that, I'd guess the body is older than a month or two."  
>Sherlock nodded, with a slight gleam in his eyes, which he always had when John told him the obvious.<p>

"Show me the others," Sherlock said. He froze in his steps as he headed toward the road, intending to take a cab to Bart's where the other remains were held, sniffed the air, and promptly vomited.

"Yuck." Liam was making an appearance. He'd also gone very green. "I don't feel well." He leaned on John for support.

"Is everything alright?" Lestrade was looking at him strangely.

"I'm fine, I just shouldn't have woken up." He shook again and swallowed. "I'm fine," Sherlock said, turning the correct colour for a human (or at least for Sherlock). "Back to Bart's."

The other remains were in similar condition, though the placement of the surgical incisions was different. For one victim, it was the heart, for another, the kidney.

"All coma patients?"

"Yeah, but they didn't have anything in common."

"Except for the fact that they were all in comas." Sherlock was using his _don't be obvious_ tone.

"Yeah, apart from that."

Sherlock leaned in to examine the wounds. "These were likely made with a scalpel," he said, gesturing to the wounds near the missing organs. "These with a common butcher's knife." The missing fingers looked lopped off, violently. "So, the killer has no moral compunctions about preying on the weak."

His voice grew cold and he whispered—Avery: "The weak were meant to die."

John followed him quietly, knowing that Avery had taken over by the way that he slipped his hand into Johns. John didn't stay anything until they reached the café for something to eat. He didn't get anything, as he felt sick after being on the crime scene, but Avery ordered himself a large breakfast— John thought this was odd- and sat down to eat all of it.  
>"So, he probably need your input somewhere in this case, but not right now." Avery chewed his food and look at John with a frown on his face. "You're pissed off at me, aren't you?" He didn't reply as he sipped his coffee. "I'm sorry. You were accusing me of something that I couldn't deal with…" There was a high pitched clearing of the throat behind them. Molly.<p>

"Hello Sherlock, John. I've missed you two. How have you been? Sorry I haven't been to see you… I didn't think you'd enjoy my company." Avery snarled before gulping down the rest of his coffee.

"You were right," Avery muttered. Suddenly he doubled over.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Fine, he's just—he's trying to wake up and I'm—never mind," he said, sitting back up. He took another sip of coffee but blanked out, spilling it, and for a few seconds, didn't even react to the scorching pain on his legs. When he did, he winced. "Avery," he swore. "This is getting irritating again." He belched. "Excuse me." He stood and painfully walked back to the morgue. "I need to examine the bodies in more detail, as well as the hospital records. Probably some clue there."

While he waited for that, he looked carefully at the bodies, taking his magnifier and looking at the pattern of every single nick and cut, eliminating the ones made by animals and filing the ones made by the butcher's knife or scalpel, taking a blank autopsy paper and filling in the precise details (it was obvious Liam had some influence as animal bites were coloured green, scalpel cuts were blue, and knife cuts were red) for future reference.

Taking the folder of hospital details from Molly, he walked out. "I think that's enough to start with," he said, flashing a smile and going outside to hail a cab to go back to Baker Street.

John followed behind him. "Do you want me to come with you?" He asked timidly. Sherlock shot him another _obviously_ look, before getting into the cab.

When they returned to Baker street, John's bags were waiting at the front door. He picked them up, resisting the urge to sigh, and he walked upstairs to put them in his bedroom. When he came out, Sherlock was playing his violin, deep in thought.

John decided to pop in to see Mrs Hudson for a bit, and explain what had happened to cause his actions yesterday.  
>When he'd had a few cups of tea and left, Avery was dominant, sitting the the chair drawing.<br>"Hello. Can we talk?"

Avery raised an eyebrow. "If we must." He was still somewhat wary of John, not quite able to shake his paranoid logic, but knew how stupid it was. "Sorry. The nightmare's still with me. That aching fear that everything I knew was wrong. I was afraid, actually _afraid_." He put his sketchpad down and went to get a cigarette, lighting up and smiling. "That puts the nerves at rest. Haven't had one since before the trial…" He could feel Sherlock and Liam fading in his head, slipping into obliviousness, and he took a luxurious drag, drowning them as much as possible. "What is it you wanted to talk about? If you want," he sneered, "We could do another honesty hour. Haven't had one in a while."

"You know what happened with me and Sherlock, and how we're no longer in a relationship." Avery took a huge drag and sighed. "Well, I regret it. I regret leaving, and I know that it was nothing more than an experiment to him, so he won't repeat it. As he said to me once, 'why would I repeat something if I know the conclusion?'."  
>Avery didn't move, in fact, his eyes flicked down to his sketchpad. "What I want to know is, do you think it's worth me bothering? Do you even want me anymore?"<p>

"Don't." Avery leapt up from the chair, pointing at John with his fingers clasped around his cigarette. "Don't you get it? If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here. If it weren't for you and him, me, whatever, I'd never have been…born in the first place." He was obviously angry. "If you don't think it's worth it, than it isn't. If you think it's been a waste of time for me to even try to get through to you, to try to prove to you that you matter, if you think that for one instant I don't care, if you think I wouldn't have killed five people to avenge not only Sherlock's rape but your own, then you are damn wrong, John Watson." He was in John's face, dangerously angry, and after a few seconds, he took another drag. "The fact that you are even questioning whether or not to bother sticking around means you didn't completely mean it in the first place. If there is one doubt in your mind as to how much you care for him, how much he actually cares for you, if for one instant you think he's not worth your time, get the _fuck_ out of my flat." He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself with another drag on his cigarette—his voice had broken to almost his schizophrenically homicidal level. "I love you. You know I'd slaughter anyone who hurt you. Who hurt Sherlock. Either of you. If that's not love, then I don't understand it."

"Last time I checked, we both pay rent." John almost spat. "I obviously care. I love you and him more than anyone else. But, I don't know. I know that if he saw me with somebody else, not that there would ever be anyone else- he'd be angry, or at least upset. He wouldn't openly show it, but I know. And you, you'd be furious." Avery smirked. "I don't know. You just want to shag me, whereas Sherlock actually spent time listening, even though he didn't love me. I just want us to be simple. It's never going to be, is it?" He stood up and went to his room, sitting on the bed with a loud sigh.

Avery followed him. "So you think I just want what's in your pants? Is that what this is about? What happened isn't nice, it isn't pretty, and is sure as hell isn't simple. You think I wouldn't love you if you didn't have a penis? Let's find out." He flung John to the bed, producing handcuffs from apparently nowhere and chained John to the bed. His eyes had completely lost any hint of sanity as he ripped John's pants off, not unlike Moran had, and used the legs of John's trousers to tie him down. "What a shame, I'm sure you were rather attached," he laughed as he flicked open his knife, staring at John's reproductive organs, head tilted dangerously, breathing unsteady. He leaned over and—

_STOP!_

The combined voice of Liam and Sherlock screamed in his head. He froze, knife inches from John's scrotum.

_Don't you get it? That's what they did, they threatened him with knives, tied him up, gagged him, tortured him. You're not like them, you're worse because he trusts you._

"Shut—" Avery was still frozen, fighting to continue his twisted quest to prove that he cared about John as more than a shag.

_He is not Moran. He is not Moriarty. He loves you. He cares about you. Why are you doing this?_

"I—he—he was going to leave, he was going to abandon us like everyone else, he doesn't believe I'm capable of caring, just like Father didn't believe." His voice was breaking, John starting to sweat as the knife hovered too close for comfort. "I have to show him that he's more to me than sex. I have to prove that I love every bit of him. I have to…to…"

_This is not the way to do that._

Slowly he closed the knife and left the room in silence, dissolving into a hysteric bout of verbal self-abuse, leaving John by himself, unable to move.

John sat there, hyperventilating, kicking his legs so he could get the blanket over himself. _You know this isn't right, you have to leave._ John swallowed air, wanting to scream because the voice in his head was back. _And when you leave, then maybe you can live out the rest of your useless life. You won't achieve anything, but at least you won't be dead._ "Shut up." He muttered to himself. _No, I won't. Not until you pop another pill to hide me away. That won't be for some time, anyway. Avery's probably gone off killing. There's nothing you can do. _

John fell into a deep sleep, surprisingly. He wasn't sure how long it had lasted when he woke himself up by screaming. Sherlock/Avery/Liam ran in after a while, to check why he'd been screaming. "Nightmares." He spat out.

Fumbling hands unlocked the handcuffs. "My God. Was it…?" Sherlock breathed deeply, shakily, mortified that he'd been attacked again. John's voice was wrong, small, angry but terrified as he said that no one happened but Avery. Sherlock helped John sit up. "I remember fighting him. I was aware then, so was Liam, but I don't know what happened at all." He frowned. It was plain he'd made a decision of some sort. "We can't control him. We can't stop him." He left and went back to his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

It was two full, worrying hours before he came out again, and the first thing he did was hug John. This was obviously Liam. "Don't let the Monsters hurt you or me or anyone. Not ever, not even Avery. He's a Monster, too. I've tried to lock him away in my head and he's staying where Sherlock and I have put him but he still scares me." He sniffed and rubbed his eyes on John's hair. "Please be okay, John, I love you…"

Then he released his grip, coughing awkwardly, Sherlock again. "You going to be fine?"

"No. Why is it that they can love me, and you can't? You all share a brain." Sherlock blinked at him. "You're the only one who I crave love from, and yet, you're the only one who won't love me." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm so tired. I don't have my medication either. The voice is back, and now that Avery is probably going to attack me, I don't know how I'll retaliate." Sherlock paced around, clearly trying to think. "Anthea might have them, Mycroft made her look after me when I'd been drinking so she had to have them." He stopped pacing and raised an eyebrow at John. "No, no. It wasn't what you're thinking. I was passed out while she watched television." In that split second, his hands were around his throat. Avery. Avery had him up against a wall, breathing heavily and dangerously close to his face. "Avery, stop it. Stop it." He was choking out, and then he felt his feet slowly leave the ground as he was lifted up by the throat.

Avery stared, muttering wildly, almost incomprehensibly, one moment English, then French, then German, and then Latin before back to English. His pupils were almost completely invisible, eventually breaking off into insane laughter as he pulled out his knife, placing it to John's throat and drawing the tiniest amount of blood, before drawing back, licking the knife, and running off out of the flat, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter with him, leaving the semiconscious John recovering on the floor.

It wasn't hard to find Hussey on his off day. It was just as easy for Avery to read his habits as it was for Sherlock, so he knew that he always took a stroll in the park just at sunset. He stood in the darkness, giggling, before stamping out his cigarette, composing himself, trying to hide the incoming glee, and stepping forward. "Doctor Hussey," he said, calmly, far more calmly than he had been the past few hours. Almost normal-sounding.

"Oh, it's you, hi. I thought—never mind." He had plainly been expecting something else, someone else, probably someone who'd come to attack him.

"You thought I was Moriarty." Avery's lips pulled into the sick sneer reserved for talk of Moriarty. "Sorry. No such luck. I need to talk to you in private." He pulled Hussey into the darkening alleyway next to the park. He was stalling for time, for dusk to give way to night.

"What?" Hussey seemed surprised at the mention of Moriarty's name.

"Oh, don't think I haven't figured it out. The reason you weren't a help was because you didn't want to be. I've talked to other patients of yours, they were fine. I was the only one you screwed over. I checked the funding on your little experiments. A firm called Rikaspuro. Rich brook in Finnish, apparently." Avery paused to make his point. "You should know by now that no one who works for the Spider gets to live." He blinked maniacally, smiling and sneering. "Did he tell you which chemicals to pump through my veins when you shocked the living hell out of me?" His head was tilted, not the way it was when he (or Sherlock or Liam) were curious. This was a psychotic tilt. "Or should I say that you shocked the living hell into me, or shocked me into a living hell." He was in Hussey's face now, inches away, and the man with the thinning hair had no escape. "Swapping personalities, I could have dealt with. I would have learned to manage. The blank-outs and the missing memories and the sudden jumps in mood. But this. This is schizophrenia, and don't give me that shit about how it hasn't been long enough to properly make that diagnosis—I know what this is. This is screaming in the middle of the night. This is hallucinations so real I don't know if they're standing there or just in my head. This is feeling like someone's coming after me and knowing that at that moment, there's no good reason for it. This is thinking I see them time and time again, when there's no one there. This is hearing voices, not just as thought-whispers, but as real as I'm standing here." Avery's voice was as icy as his eyes, whispering now. He slapped Hussey. "Feel that? I had to do that to Sherlock in France, in the barn because he wouldn't stop sucking the life out of John, literally. And he felt it just as real to him as it just did to you, even though it was only in his mind."

"I—I didn't—"

"Like hell you didn't know. Maybe you didn't know exactly what was going to happen, but you knew it was going to fuck me up. Well, you know what?" Avery licked his lips and flicked open his switchblade. "You don't get to think about it for much longer." He'd pinned Hussey to the wall with his body, and he was taking a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it, and Hussey tried to run, but Avery drove his knife through the top of Hussey's hand and into the mortars between the bricks, before laughing softly—a laugh that long since abandoned all pretense of sanity. "No, no—you don't get to run away from this," he laughed as he wiped Hussey's blood on the psychiatrist's own shirt. "You don't get to escape the consequences of your little experiment."

Hussey's voice was shaking both with fear and with the pain of the stab wound in his hand. "Y—you're insane!"

Avery inhaled on his cigarette and blew the smoke out around his reply. "Yes," he whispered in a drawn-out, almost sexual voice, not only accepting it, but for the moment, relishing it. "And there's more than just your experiment, more than just the electroshock and the drugs. You told them where to find me in that hospital. Mycroft was very careful not to let anyone know except attending psychiatrists, and you were the only one with past ties who could have told him. You know what he did to me? He raped me. Again. He drugged me up, raped me, and shocked me with a stungun until I passed out. I couldn't move for a day. I couldn't speak for several. And you did that to me, too. So I have my reasons for this, for doing this, for righting this odious wrong." Hussey took a deep breath, but Avery put his hand on his throat, the other one holding the knife to Hussey's cheek. "No, no, no, no, you're not going to get to scream. Shhh, it'll all be over soon." He forced Hussey to his knees. "I'd say this will be quick and painless, but I'm disinclined to lie to a dying man." He placed the knife point against Hussey's left carotid artery. "Any last words?"

"P—please, Sh—sherlock!"

"Avery." His nose twitched at the use of the wrong name. "My name is Avery. You should know that by now." He froze for an instant. "Not now," he snarled, shaking his head. Hussey saw this as a potential chance to escape, but once again, Avery had him by the throat. "They're trying to stop me." He was growing more unhinged as the darkness fell. His head was tilted, his eyes wide and mad. "Liam sees, Liam knows. Sherlock only knows how excited I am. For once, Liam knows every detail and Sherlock knows next to nothing." He let out a snicker. "They're not going to stop me. Nothing can stop me." He took another drag, laughed again. "Time to die, Doctor Hussey." Hussey whimpered. He'd been threatened by the less-controlled of his patients before, but only verbal threats. He knew Avery was more than capable of killing, and more than likely to do so, especially right now. He didn't get to think about it any more. The knife plunged into his throat and sliced across it, through it, and Avery savoured every little bump of resistance as the trachea was cut straight through, the grind of metal on bone as the knife rubbed against the spine. Avery preferred to stand in front of his victims, watching the light leave their eyes, feeling the warm blood squirt, the last moment of their lives on him, covering him.

He slumped Hussey's body against the wall, tapping his cigarette ashes down the exposed throat blissfully. He took the flower from his pocket, the bird's foot trefoil, and placed it across Hussey's chest. Avery laughed as he walked away, laughed at the screaming in his head, at the blood covering him, at the thrill of killing again.

He was still laughing when he went back to Baker Street and up the stairs. He stripped and threw his blood-soaked clothes in the laundry bin while John was in the toilet (Avery had made sure to arrive when he saw the light on in there). After he washed his face and hands to get the blood off, he lay on John's bed, completely starkers, completely bonkers, as he continued to be bombarded with Liam's screaming and Sherlock's panic. It only fuelled him. He hadn't taken his mid-day or evening medication, but he didn't care. Right now, he was insane and far too happy about it, laughing away in the dark room, waiting for John.

John strolled in humming to himself, taking off his shirt before he got into bed. Something wasn't right. He turned on the light to see a fully naked and hysterical Avery lying on his bed. "What on earth are you doing?" John stammered. Avery looked up with a wild look in his eyes, grinning, as if he was very pleased with himself. "Where have you been? And, if you think I'm going near you after you tried to cut my dick off, you're wrong." John grabbed two pillows and left the room. Avery called behind him, asking where he was going. "Sofa, because you're in my bed."

Avery followed him, pinning John to the sofa with his full (naked and very erect) body. "Give it to me. Take it from me. I need you, I need sex, I need all of it." Avery was unbuttoning John's trousers, sliding them down his legs, nibbling John's collarbone. "I need your passion, I need your pleasure."

The only response he got was a punch to the face. It wasn't hard enough to knock him out, but Avery retaliated by punching John the same way. "That's how it's going to be, is it?" He stood up, snarled and slammed John's door—he'd taken John's room for the night.

The next morning, when John awoke, Sherlock was missing. John went downstairs to looking for him and found him curled into a twitching ball, naked, asleep and leaning against Mrs. Hudson's door, a crayon drawing of five people with the words SAVE ME FROM THE MONSTERS in uncharacteristic block capitals in Liam's writing below it. It was above Liam's usual artistic scope, though nowhere near Avery's skill, but John could tell what it was a picture of.

Moriarty, in his suit, grinning as he held a human skull, recently scalped. Moran standing beside him, proud, yet submissive, leering as he cleaned his rifle. Avery holding his kill-knife and his signature flower, a trail of smoke coming from the cigarette between his lips. Sherlock, naked and covered in blood, including that which dripped from his mouth. And below it, John, holding a pistol, looking almost gleefully evil as he pointed it toward Moriarty. Liam must have had a terrible nightmare. The door opened, and John hid for no reason. Mrs. Hudson looked at the drawing and closed her eyes sadly—she recognized what had happened. Liam was awake, if only just, and crying. She took him and hugged him, letting him inside and wrapping him in a blanket, and she caught sight of John as she closed the door and mouthed _I'll call you_. She shut the door and took Liam to her bedroom where she tucked him in to sleep, starting a CD of classical music she'd saved for lullabies for when her grand-nephew came to visit, which he hadn't done in a few months.

She phoned John. "Poor dear. I don't know what's going on with him anymore. He's in my bedroom, sleeping again, and I've put on some lullabies to try to help him. I don't know what else to do."

John could hear Liam come into the room in the background. He'd obviously still had trouble sleeping, and Mrs. Hudson put the phone to her chest. Liam's voice grew louder as he hugged Mrs. Hudson. "Please read me a story. A nice one. I need the nightmares to go away." He was sniffling, still upset.

"Of course, Liam. I'll be right there."

"Come with me. I need someone I can trust to never be a Monster. I don't want to be alone."

"I'll call you back," she said to John. "Or you could call me, I suppose. Either way, I'll talk to you soon." She hung up and took Liam back to the bedroom with a glass of water and tucked him in again. It felt so wrong to her, a seven-year-old in the body of a thirty-six-year-old, but she wasn't going to ignore his need. She read as if to her grand-nephew, the story of Peter Pan, and by the time she was finished, he was asleep again. She kissed his forehead. "Oh, Sherlock." She left the light on and went back into the living room, calling John back and inviting him to stay in the living room, though she did warn him to whisper.

John decided to sit in Mrs Hudson's room, telling her to go and sleep upstairs in Sherlock's room, because it was never used. She nodded, and walked off making soft weeping noises. Liam snuffled in his sleep, muttering quietly to himself about monsters. John read through the _Grimms' book of fairy tales_. It was like reading through a book about Moriarty. He had clearly studied this book word for word. He threw the book on the floor, causing Liam to wake up. He looked at him and clung onto Hamish, not saying a word.  
>"I'll leave, if you want. I know you don't trust me."<p>

Liam sniffed. "Don't go," he said in a very small voice. "Please, please don't go. I'm so scared right now, I don't know why, but it feels like everyone's going to hurt me. You protect me, my lion. I know you won't hurt me even when it feels like you will." He curled into Hamish, fighting tears. "Don't go away. I don't like being this scared, I don't, and I'm scared of Avery and he doesn't stay where I put him in my mind, and I'm scared of the Monsters and I'm scared of being scared of you. I hate when I'm scared of you and scared of Sherlock and scared of My because I'm not meant to be scared of you." He reached to John and grabbed his wrist, pleading him to stay. "If you leave, I'll turn into glass and I'll fall and shatter and never be fixed…" He was clearly exhausted, and his hand was shaking. He drew back and shoved his head into Hamish and let out a scream. "Avery's choir is too loud, make them stop, make them stop…and he's laughing and Sherlock is mumbling and it hurts, please, John, do something…"

"I won't go. Do you want a sleeping pill?" Liam nodded, his eyes wide. John went upstairs, promising to return, and came back with sleeping pills in hand. "Here you go, take two." He passed him the glass of water from the bedside table, and climbed in the bed with him to cuddle him until he dropped off to sleep. "I love you, Liam. I won't leave. I promise."

John was woken up the next day by Mrs Hudson bringing him and Liam tea. Liam opened his eyes slowly, slurped his tea, and hid back under the covers. "He's doing better today, I think." John muttered, nodding at Mrs Hudson.  
>"Good. I love you two, boys." She smiled, and left the room to make breakfast.<p>

"I love you too," Liam called. He hugged John. "I need my other medicine, the choir is still loud. And Avery…he…he…" He started crying again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for bad things to happen, I tried to stop him, I really really did." He refused to explain further and curled up again. "My face is itchy and I smell funny…I need to take a bath." He stood up and went to the bathroom, running a bubble bath and getting in. It was soothing, and he started humming—John could hear it—but suddenly Liam was shouting.

"Avery, please go away, I don't want you here. Please get out of my bath. No. No, I won't. When I get out I'm going to take my medicine and then you're going to go away, go back inside my head. Please don't say that. Please, don't call me that, it's not nice." He started crying. "That would hurt you too. Stop. Stop, that hurts." There was a thud and a gasp of pain. "Stop, Avery, please, you're hurting me." The water splashed and there were bare footsteps coming to the door. The door opened and he was covered in soap suds, a line of blood running from the back of his head and he looked dazed. "Avery's hurting me, I need my medicine please now." He flung himself sideways as if thrown by an invisible hand, his head knocking against the door frame until John grabbed him and he passed out.

John carried him over to the sofa, which wasn't difficult because he was so thin these days. He put a blanket over him, and put him in the recovery position in case he had concussion. He sat down in the chair near the sofa to the end, he decided it was best to text Mycroft and let him know.

_Liam is having hallucinations, or so I thought. Until something threw him across the room and knocked him out. He's okay, I've put him in the recovery position until he wakes up. This condition is getting progressively worse, and it's pretty clear we're going to have to find another doctor soon. This time we need to get them checked out, in case they work with Moriarty. I have a slight suspicion that Hussey is. -John_

John put the TV on, realizing he hadn't watched it in about a week. The news, as usual was going on about a murder. He listened, in case there was a case in there for Sherlock.

"Yet another murder has been committed, much like the others of the Birds foot trefoil, the victim has a slit throat with a cigarette stubbed out on it. No DNA can be taken from the cigarette butt, sadly. We are not close to catching this killer." John went pale in the face and turned to look at the sleeping Liam next to him.  
>"My husband was a family man, and even though his job kept him busy he never failed to make time for his children and myself. His death, his murder, has come as a big shock to us all. He was a credit to his field, and loved by many."<br>The news woman shuffled her papers. "That was Mrs Hussey this afternoon, leaving Scotland yard. In other news, David Cameron has…"

John completely zoned out after that. He was waiting for the phone call from Lestrade, demanding answers. Liam opened his eyes carefully. John handed him his medication before sitting back down. "Liam. Did you know Avery had killed Doctor Hussey?"

Liam shrank down in his blanket. "Y…yes," he whispered. "I tried to tell you, I really did, but Avery wouldn't let me. He…" Liam couldn't find the word. "He choked my voice when I tried to speak. Made me not talk." He looked at the air beside John. "Please, Avery, don't hurt me, I didn't tell him, the news did, please, please don't hurt me." He grabbed his medicines as if hiding from a poisonous snake that was watching him and took them cautiously. "Sherlock doesn't know, he was asleep, I'm scared. Am I going to prison?"

There was a buzz at the door. Mrs. Hudson answered it, and Liam and John could hear the man on the other side—Dr. Jenkins—talking.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you knew how soon Mr. Holmes would be back. I'm his doctor, and he was meant to see me twice last week and once yesterday and didn't keep the appointments."

Liam looked up, still dazed, but apologetic, realizing that John hadn't known he was meant to be coming in twice a week.

"Oh, he's actually in the other room, but he isn't dressed. If you'll stay in here, I'll get him some clothes." Mrs. Hudson brought a pair of Sherlock's pyjamas to him, along with the grey gown that Liam had taken a favour to.

"Thank you, Mrs. H," Liam said, getting dressed, and the mere act of being clothed again relaxed him. Dr. Jenkins came in and smiled.

"Who am I speaking to?"

Liam fiddled with his sleeves. "Captain Liam." He wasn't making eye contact.

Jenkins sat at the far end of the sofa, and Liam drew his knees up to his chest. "How are you, Liam?"

"Not well," he answered. "I'm sorry I didn't come see you. Avery had a nightmare and thought John was going to hurt us so he left. And then John was gonna leave but My stopped him because we need him lots and I've been so scared." He hiccupped, agitated again. "And then we came back home again and Avery almost did a bad thing to John and then he did a very bad thing to Dr. Hussey and then John wouldn't sex with him and got mad and then I had a nightmare and came here and then Avery hit my head on the faucet and the wall and it hurt and I fainted."

Jenkins listened carefully, watching as Liam grew upset to the point that he began severely stressing his dressing gown. "What did Avery do to Hussey?"

Liam shook his head. "Don't want to remember. It was bad." He started welling up, the horrible memory of the murder causing great distress.

"Have you been in control since then?"

"Mostly but I think that's because I tried to box Avery up." Liam stared into the corner, watching Avery. "And Sherlock isn't well."

"Can you let one of them speak?"

Liam shook his head vigorously. "No, no, I won't do it. Avery will get out. I've tried to wake Sherlock but he isn't listening. And I don't want Avery to come out, he'll hurt people." Liam shrank away as the image of Avery approached, intimidating. "He always hurts people, please not me again…"

"Did he actually hurt John or were you able to stop him?"

The figure on the sofa began laughing, sinisterly, and Avery looked up, traces of his earlier hysteria still present, but the medication was starting to work and he was obviously calmer. "No. I'd never hurt _John_. " Avery took John's hand and licked his lips, a quiet statement of _Don't mention that thing I did with the knife._ mixed with _I still want you_.

"Hello, Avery," Jenkins said. "How have you been feeling?"

"Like a monkey in a zoo," Avery spat. "I'm always being looked after. Restrained. Maybe I wouldn't be so angry all the time if _someone_ didn't seem content on locking me up, even if it is in a way that seems almost nice. A gilded cage is still a cage."

John sighed and took his hand away. He decided he wouldn't speak until he was spoken to. "So, John. How have you and Sherlock been?" He looked up.  
>"Not well. We're not together anymore, if that's what you're asking." Avery snarled under his breath.<br>"Oh, and why is that?" Jenkins tapped his pencil on his clipboard with a confused look on his face.  
>"He had a paranoid delusion and accused me of being in league with Moriarty. We had an argument, and now he won't take me back. Experiment concluded, apparently."<br>Avery snatched John's hand back again and looked at Jenkins.  
>"However, Avery still seems to want me." He looked at him, almost as if he was disappointed, but Avery didn't notice. Jenkins noted things down before looking Avery in the face.<br>"You'll be okay, right? Okay. I'll have to leave you two, I have to get home. But I have brought some sedatives and a mood stabilizer for when you're restless and low." He handed the packets to Avery. "Instructions on the back as usual. Okay, I'll see you next week. Goodbye."

He left, quietly, leaving John and Avery in silence. John pulled his hand away and said he was going for a walk, not wanting to be with Avery at the present time.

When John returned about an hour later, Liam was in control again. The first thing he did when he saw John was back was wrap John's head in his arms. "Please be nice, John's head." He sniffled and pulled away. "I fell asleep again and I had a bad dream that the Monster in your head came out and was controlling you like Avery does me again and then he was shooting people like those men wanted and then I woke up and I've been sick." He smelled it, too, acidic breath rather rank. "Please keep evil John tied up and trapped. I don't want to see him again."

"Go and get a shower and brush your teeth, Liam, then we can watch Pirates of the Caribbean with ice cream." John smiled, and Liam nodded eagerly, before running off to the bathroom.

John quickly texted Zapharia, telling her about what had happened. She didn't reply by the time Liam had come out, and John put his phone straight into his pocket.

Halfway through the film, Avery took control. He threw the bowl of ice cream to the floor and pushed John down against the sofa, slipping his hands into his pants. John shoved him off, before turning off the film, cleaning up the mess and going to his room. Avery snarled, and watched him in a predatory fashion until he closed the door behind him. John had made sure that Mrs Hudson now locked the front door of a night, so Avery couldn't kill again. He didn't tell her the reasoning, and it didn't help him to sleep knowing that the only person Avery could kill would be him.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Avery was furious. "I'm sorry about what I almost did. I was screwed up right then. It was the coke and the lack of meds and insane paranoid jealousy." John didn't answer. "Damn it! Say something! I know I scare the shit out of you sometimes. I don't understand it. I know I'm not exactly the nicest of people, but everything I've done has been for either you or Sherlock." His voice was growing hysterical again, rising in pitch. "And you don't want me here! That much is obvious. You said you love me. That's obviously not what this is."

There was the sound of a gun cocking. "If you love me, you'll stop me. If you want me gone, stay there. You have fifteen seconds to take this gun from my hand before I blow my brains out."

John jumped to his feet and smacked the gun out of his hand. "What the fuck are you doing?" Tears were streaming down Averys face, which John didn't expect. John put his arms around him, trying to calm him down. He was pretty sure that the crying was coming from Liam.  
>"Shh. Calm down. I love you." Avery looked up at him tearfully and frowned. "What? I do."<p>

John climbed back into bed after he'd unloaded and hidden the gun while Avery went to draw for a few hours. He dropped off to sleep pretty quickly, this time, without dreams. Peacefully.

Someone crawled into the bed with John at half four in the morning. Liam, going by the posture. He was curled up and crying, as close to John as possible without being on top of him, and John was just awake enough to hear him whisper.

"Why did you almost do that, Avery?" He hiccuped. "Why did you almost make us go away for good?" Louis came to join them, lying between Liam's head and John's ear, purring them both to a deep and peaceful sleep.

John woke up to breakfast in bed. It was Sherlock who had made it. "I don't know how long I've been out," he said. "The last thing I remember is you telling me that Anthea might have your medication." He pointed out the pill on the plate. "Mycroft brought them around." He sighed. "And Liam, afraid. Just a feeling. Liam was frightened, and Avery was excited. Whatever happened, I know it wasn't good. But that's all I know." He shifted. "Hysteria. We need something to combat it. I have an idea. Post-hypnotic suggestion, a sort of trigger word. A word that you could say to any of…any of the three of me to get us to—to melt, to stop what we're doing and relax. To go limp and block out any bad emotions or memories. Like a word-sedative." He sat down. "I think umqra would be perfect. Not heard in everyday speech. What do you think?"

John blinked. Sherlock had never known the real meaning of 'umqra' and he was convinced that it was just morse code gone wrong. John smirked and nodded. "Yeah, okay." Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, for this, by the way. It's uh, well it's definitely a surprise." Sherlock had never make him breakfast before, and it was actually good.

When John had finished his breakfast, he went to get a shower and changed. Sherlock was texting Lestrade about the case. When he returned from getting ready, Avery had taken over. "Oh, morning." John fixed his shirt. "Sherlock's working on a case today.." Avery snarled and slumped on the sofa, covering his face with a pillow. "Right. Well, it's important that he goes today. You have about half an hour to sit around."

"Because that's all you'll let me do. Sit." Avery was still upset. "You're worse than Fath—" He grunted and turned to face the wall, not knowing what to do. On the one hand, he felt as though he'd only ever be treated as a plague, and he desperately wanted to fight it, but on the other, he was trying to stick to his vow of not hurting John, even with words, and one of the worst insults in the world was a comparison to his own father.

He stayed that way, silent and still, for around ten minutes before rolling over and leaping up again. "Need to go to Bart's," Sherlock said. "Have to use some of their equipment, as well as take another look at the bodies, as well as the patient files. Try to find anyone who may have been in contact with all three of them and would have the skill set to do this." He was packing a small bag as he spoke, all of his medicines (including his old one) going into the bag, the case files on top.

John decided to not bring up the comment about Sherlock's father. Instead, he nodded and watched Sherlock pack the bag.

They got outside and hailed a cab. Sherlock stared quietly out of the window, while John tried to make idle chit chat with the cabbie. Suddenly, the cab screeched to a halt, causing Sherlock and John to almost hit the glass separating them from the driver. "What the fu-" before John could finish his question, they were dragged out of the cab into a nearby building. "Not again." John clung onto Sherlock's hand for dear life as they were tied up and gagged on the floor next to eachother.

Moriarty strolled out with a grin on his face. Sebastian followed him, his gun in hand. "Hello you two, nice to see you again." He cocked the gun and smiled.  
>"We need to be somewhere." John tried to mumble through the gag before he was slapped in the face.<br>"Shut up. We have a proposition." Sebastian smiled, before standing next to Jim who was licking his lips.

John saw Sherlock lose control of Avery and Liam, and they all erupted out of him, going through a phase of helpless sobbing, wild furious struggling, and paralytic fear in a matter of seconds. His left fist closed and opened behind his back, desperately wanting to escape, wanting this to be a hallucination.

"Someone's a bit agitated," Jim said, the missing portion of tongue clearly visible. Avery struggled again, to the point where the ropes had started to draw blood, letting out a primal roar behind the gag. Sherlock took control again and just stared helplessly, trying not to utterly blank. His mind was racing with the ideas of what Jim's "proposition" was.

"_You die or he dies."_

"_Who volunteers to be raped while the other watches?"_

"_I'm going to take you both far away from London where no one can find you."_

_Experimental drugs_

_Torture session_

"_What would you do to save your siblings?"_

"_Would you really kill us, given the chance?"_

_Buried alive_

_Kill a stranger or have John/me killed_

_Possibly rape in above conditions_

_Russian Roulette_

_For him, the physical, for me, the mental, agonies beyond what we've yet experienced_

_WHY SO SERIOUS?_

The last thought, the flashback from Avery's favourite film broke through, the voice of the Joker almost as real as the other hallucinated voices (which, right now, were tumultuously loud, at least Avery and Liam, and he was just barely holding himself dominant). The chilling voice added to Sherlock's distress, and he felt like vomiting. His eyes rolled slightly as unconsciousness threatened to overwhelm him. Liam whimpered, though not dominant, and Sherlock just waited for his nightmares to become reality.

Moriarty giggled while Sebastian pointed the loaded gun at John's head. "We realized it's not enough fun for us to… what would you call it? Rape you. Although, John…" He stroked his head while he licked his lips, "…you are my favorite." John twitched with disgust. Sherlock suddenly turned into Avery and struggled to get up. "So, we want you two to fuck. Right now. In front of us." John started to shake, hating the idea right down to his core. "You'll be at gunpoint, of course. Couldn't risk you two running away, now could we, boss?" Sebastian looked at Moriarty like a puppy who was begging for its masters attention.

Avery charged Moriarty, headbutting him as hard as he could, dazing both men momentarily. He would have continued to do so, if Moran's gun hadn't cocked into place. Instead, Avery settled for a muffled version of "I fuck when I want, not when some bastard tells me to."

"Alright, then, I guess I'll just have to shoot him."

Liam screamed as Moran pointed the gun back to John, and slowly worked his trousers off. His eyes said _I hate this but I won't let them kill you, I love you_, but with the gag he could say nothing. His lower half was exposed and he lay down, not wanting this at all, but preferring to trust John.

"Ah-ah-ah, no, Sherlock, we know you prefer to be top." Liam whimpered as the gun was trained on him, and slowly he crawled over to John and lay next to him, crying, his eyes pleading. _Please John, I don't want to hurt you, please agree so they won't shoot us. Then I promise to never want to sex. Never ever._ He hoped his eyes got the message across.

"Boss, this isn't going to work. Shall we move them into _the room_?" He slid his hand around Jim's neck and whispered something, leaving Moriarty giggling like the maniac he was. "Come on boys, we have a special room for you. We won't be there, you'll be in private, if you like." John frowned, confused as to why they would leave them alone. _Of course they're filming you, idiot. It's just like porn. _John shook his head with a groan as he and Liam were dragged to the room.

The room was small and dark with a double bed. Clearly Moriary and Moran had used this bed before them, because the bedding was messy and there was used condoms nearby. "Get in the bed, John." Seb cut the rope around John and Liam before running out of the room shrieking with laughter. John pulled the gag off Liam's mouth and hugged him. "I know what they're doing, Liam. They going to film us, and then they're going to put it in the media, we'll be disgraced."  
>"Correct boys." A speaker blasted. "You're still at gunpoint, get on with it."<p>

"I don't want to sex, please, please, I don't want to, but I don't want them to hurt you and you being safe is more important than me not being scared." Liam was shaking and crying, looking up at John from his little ball. "I don't know how to sex anymore, I didn't want it so I deleted it. Should I let Sherlock out?" John nodded and Liam shuddered, for a moment of utter blankness—no one wanted control. But then it was Avery.

"Didn't want it to be like this." He frowned, furious. "But if it's porn they want, let's make it the most boring sex they've ever seen."

"We're waaaiting."

Avery flipped the camera off and rolled over on top of John and whispered. "Think you can manage to be less than your usual fantastic self?"

"I can try," John tried to smirk but his misery took over. "Do we have to?" He whispered. "We could find an escape route or something." Avery shook his head and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, wincing as if it was painful. "I don't wish to alarm you but," John looked down at his pants, "If this is boring, I won't be able to… y'know. Right now I feel pretty sick, this is giving me all kinds of flashbacks." He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "I can't do this. Not while they're watching."  
>"Well it's that, or your life, Doctor." Sebastians voice boomed through the speakers. Avery growled up at the camera, flicking it the finger before pulling his pants off. "Avery, I don't think I can do this, I'm scared, even though it's you."<p>

"I know, I know, and that's their point," Avery whispered. "We can't let them win, John." He sprawled over John. "Just trust me, focus on me. This is no different than the battlefield." He was having trouble, too, but managed to put up a pretense of calm. "Just pretend it's me. Only me." He leaned in and used his most seductive voice. "I am the world. We are the only people here. And I love you. I would never hurt you." He stroked John, trying to make him melt, force him to relax, touching him in places John was most tender but trying to block the cameras so it could not be used against him in future. "Focus on _us_."

John sighed and closed his eyes. "Okay." Avery closed his own eyes and kissed John softly on the lips whilst he grabbed his hips. John felt no effect of this, instead he felt incredibly uncomfortable. "This isn't working." He whispered. "It's like I can feel their eyes boring into me." Avery nodded in agreement. "I'm not turned on at all. This is going to be a problem."  
>"Oh god, can't you two do anything right? It's a simple task. Do you value your heads being on your shoulders at all?" Avery flicked the finger at the camera yet again before turning back to John, kissing his neck, trying his best to make the situation work.<p>

"Do you not understand this could be life or death?" Avery was no more excited than John was—his thoughts were occupied with how he was going to kill Moriarty after he made them do the same. Suddenly, he froze and his eyes glazed over. "Liam's beginning," Sherlock whispered, flashing back badly to the night after Valentine's Day, the night the enormous Y resembling autopsy cuts had been carved into John's chest.

"Okay, what you need is some help, obviously," Moriarty's voice called. The door opened and Moran came in, holding two vials of liquid. He grabbed Sherlock's face and forced the liquid in, holding his nose closed and mouth shut until he swallowed. The same was done for John.

"What was that?"

Moran smiled. "Just a bit of angel dust." The door closed. Sherlock gulped and turned to John, taking his hands desperately.

"John. What you're about to experience, it won't be pleasant. Not for us. Not for me in particular. PCP has been known to mimic schizophrenic symptoms—hallucinations, depersonalization, aggression, suicidal impulses." His eyes had begun to shake. "It's what I am when I've missed my medication. I never wanted you to feel it, to know what my mind has twisted into." He allowed a slight smile. "Perhaps it'll help you understand me." Moriarty's voice came over the stereo again.

"And action!"

"He isn't getting us for sex. Maybe he'll get us for drug use." His eyes were starting to shake more violently. "Some people phase out, some people grow aggressive. Some self-mutilate." He began shaking, not from the drug, but from terror as the hallucinations had already begun, double the intensity of his normal waking horrors. "I…floating…John?" He scrambled at John's arms as if he was falling, hallucinating that he was tumbling backwards into a vat of thick, warm blood, hands grabbing at him, stroking his face, his neck, his bare torso. He couldn't fight the vertigo. "Jjjohn," he slurred. "Ffffalling."

And John's hallucinations had begun, too, plaguing him with swirling visions, as if he were being drawn back and flung forward, something pulling his consciousness out before snapping it back in again, and in his mind, memory mixed with perception, and there was blood pouring from Sherlock's mouth.

He tried his best to reach forward, but instead, his hand melted away in front of him. He went to scream, but he couldn't move his mouth, and it felt like his throat was being squeezed. He could hear Liam quietly weeping in the background, while Avery was loud and looking for him in the darkness that was suddenly swirling around him. Sherlock was telling him to keep calm until they reached each other.

A loud voice, louder than thunder, shrieked with laughter above them. A deeper voice, sharp like a flash of lightning jolted in between where Sherlock and Avery's voices were coming from. "Wow, boss. They're totally mashed." The voice laughed, and John felt a very hot slash across his face.

Avery'd struck out at John, who in his eyes, had grown demon horns and spouted laughter from his nose. There was blood as the fingernails ripped into John's cheek, but Liam fell over backwards as Sherlock drowned in Chopin and particle physics.

"Rayon de miel," Sherlock shouted. His skin had turned to honeycomb, bees flying in and out, tickling, scratching, laying eggs, bursting forth. "Bees, hive, _honeycomb_!" He writhed in pain, in the sensation that he was not a solid being. Wild trypophobia hit, the imagined hexagonal chambers of his skin too much to bear, and he screamed. Even in this state, he knew the effects would likely last for hours. He rolled over, but the crinkling sensation as the hallucinated honeycomb of his skin crushed under his weight was very painful. "Honey-blood," he mumbled. "Larvae, smoke them out."

He screamed and kicked out, making contact with something he didn't register was John's side, and there was a sharp crack as several of John's ribs were broken. Sherlock heard it as a rifle-shot. The buzzing of the imaginary bees flying in and out of his skin tripled, and he swatted at himself, trying to fight them off.

"Wellell, thisis isis newew," he heard in a deep parody of Moriarty's voice. "Thethe greatat Sherlocklock Holmeses, scareded ofof beehiveshives."

"Abeilles," Sherlock gasped. "Les abeilles sont dans ma peau!" He made a disturbing gasp/moan/scream/shout that was somehow even more haunting than the whine he'd made in the hospital after he'd been raped, followed by gagging and then convulsions.

John slumped onto the floor, everything was spinning around him. He crawled over to the bed, dragging himself onto it, to pull the covers over himself. When he was fully covered up, and could see nothing but black, he tried to sleep, even though he could hear Avery screaming. Something thumped on top of him, he guessed it was a person, but because everything felt floaty, he couldn't tell. He popped his head out of the covers, to see Avery on top of him, Liam, Sherlock and another version of Sherlock's personality; Two Moriartys', and Sebastian. The second Moriarty was sitting down sighing, looking at John in a disappointed fashion, while the other was kissing Sebastian violently.

He decided it was best to go to sleep, so he buried his head in the blanket and tried his best to drop off.

Sherlock/Avery/Liam didn't know who he was anymore. Just a honeycomb human with honey for blood and bees in his lungs, bees that were fighting to get out. He stopped convulsing and felt a tingling inside his head as if something were between his brain and his skull. He grabbed at it, fighting to open up his head to release the creature now strangling his mind, and ended up ripping out large chunks of hair, some of which had scalp attached, and the act of yanking his hair drew significant amounts of blood. "Get it out, get it the _fuck_ out!" Eventually, he gave up on fighting it, resigned to the fact that his mind would be eaten alive by the maggots inside his brain. The sensation faded as the drugs metabolized, and he registered that there was something soft beneath him, something warm, something John. Moriarty was with Moran in the corner, off-camera, clearly getting off on Sherlock and John's pain. He was too weak to move as he was lifted off of John and flipped onto his back before John was placed on top of him.

"Nowow youou haveve twowo choiceses. Eitherther youou fuckuck eachch otherer, or wewe do-oo it to-oo youou whileile the otherer watcheses. Oror…castrationration."

"No, John, I don't…I don't want…" Sherlock/Liam/Avery was too weak to fight back, except with words. He could barely figure out what Moriarty'd meant, but as the drugs were fading, it was easier to realize that the choice was a lose-lose-lose. Either they had sex for Moriarty and Moran's pleasure, they'd be raped while the other watched, or they'd both be castrated. His vision was returning to normal, though everything still stank of drying blood and it was as though the blues of John moved to the left while his reds moved to the right. "John?" His voice fell to a terrified, slurred whisper. "I trust. You. Help."

John peeked out of the covers to look at him. The other versions of him had disappeared, along with the other version of Moriarty. "We'll have sex." John slurred. "Just go out of the room, please." Moriarty nodded and Sebastian followed him out of the room, giggling like school girls.

Sherlock was dominant, and he was struggling to bring Avery forward. It took about ten minutes, or so it seemed, to bring him into dominance. Avery finally took over and looked John deep in the eyes. "We have to do this. They could kill us." John slurred again, his eyes rolling round his head. Avery kissed him, messily, because the drugs hadn't fully worn off.

Avery ran his tongue up John's torso, gingerly. "I know. 'S not what I want. But I'd rather this than…than their other way." His vision was still wrong, still phasing sideways and twisting. "And I will do this right back to them one day, and worse, you have my word." Part of Avery was enjoying the fact that John had no choice but to accept him. It was finally his chance to try to repent for his twisted agenda previously. But he took it slow, took it gently, almost uncertainly. "It's just like the first time," he whispered. "Just like my first time. When I came back from the dead and had to prove to you I was alive, so relieved that I delved into the most basic of bonds between life-forms. Just us. Safe. Together." He ground himself into John, not with Avery's usual passion, but with Sherlock's hesitancy. He tried to kiss John's mouth, but missed entirely and kissed the wound he himself had inflicted on John's cheek.

And that set Sherlock off, bringing him to front, blind to everything but the taste of blood. "Narcotic," he whispered. "Courage of the soldier, kindness of the healer. Fix the broken bonds. Recombine molecules." The sex itself was as enthusiastic as it had been in France, and the remnants of the drug in his system erased all self-consciousness. He was squeezing, biting, moaning, drawing blood with his fingernails and licking it from the wounds, quivering with pleasure. "I. You. Us. Universe of possibilities, exploration of quarks." He groaned, biting into John's lip and hovering there, sucking the blood from his lips.

And it worked for John, too, despite the pain and despite the fact they were being watched, though that knowledge was in his mind, and it lessened the experience. But Sherlock carried on, caressing John's scars. "Heal you before I can heal me." Sherlock's stamina was low from the drugs, and it didn't take long for him to climax and wear out. He slumped into the blood covering John, not nearly as much as France, not nearly enough to kill John, but more than enough to make John lightheaded. He was worn out, and Liam took dominance, sobbing and hyperventilating at the sight of John both bloody and naked. "No…"

"You two haven't finished." The voice boomed from the speakers.  
>John held Liams' face. "It's okay. Try and push Avery forward. I need you to try." Liam was shaking and pale in the face. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried. Thankfully, it worked. Avery panted and wiped the blood off John with his hand before kissing him. Though he was spent, he carried on, trying to bring John to climax by thrusting against him. The speakers boomed again, and they could hear Moriarty and Sebastian groaning loudly. "Shut the fuck up." John roared, as Avery licked the blood from his lips.<p>

"John, come on, please, just…" Avery shook his head, his hallucinations returning at the sound of John screaming and Moran and Moriarty enjoying themselves. "I…ngh," he muttered. "Please, John, just try." John continued to shake and scream, and Avery rolled out from under John and stood, raging at the camera. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He ripped the speaker from the wall and smashed it on the floor, violently and repeatedly, destroying it beyond repair. "You sadistic bastards—I—" Avery roared wordlessly, bashing the door, breaking a hole into it, as well as breaking his fist, but he didn't care. He ripped at the wood until he could reach the handle, ignoring the dangerously deep cuts in his arm and the copious amounts of blood flowing from it.

Avery unlocked the door, and half-screamed in his rage as he charged down the hallway. There was a strangled cry as he was tazed before Moran brought him back, semi-conscious.

"One last chance, John," Moriarty leered. The blood on Avery's arm was already starting to pool in the bed—not lethal, at least not if he got attention soon—and Avery moaned in pain as he recovered consciousness.

"J…"

"If you don't reach a climax, we'll have to have a go ourselves." Moriarty's grin was sickening.

John grabbed his shirt from the floor and wrapped it around Avery's shirt, applying pressure to it to stop the blood flow. He looked down on him, crying "Sorry" over and over, as he thrust into him. Avery was wincing at each movement, but he didn't ask John to stop, almost as if he knew that the sooner this was over, the sooner they could get to a hospital. Avery reached up to kiss John softly, using his other arm to bring them face to face. John tried his best to forget they were being watched, the fact they were drugged and the blood pooling around them. He imagined they were at home, in bed. His mind was racing, looking for anything that would help. He settled on the first time he and Sherlock had ever had sex, and it helped bring him over the edge. Moriarty moaned, as did Sebastian.

By that point, Sherlock's three personalities had become completely dominant all at once and he was very, very aware of the situation. "Gnk," he managed, vision starting to go black from blood loss and terror, and then Liam's small, terrified voice, spoke weakly. "Nnooo…"

Once John had finished, perpetually apologizing, he noticed he was growing drowsy, Sherlock having passed out already. There was a hissing sound as white gas poured into the room and he couldn't stay awake any more, blacking out.

They woke up, in nothing but their underwear, in the dark, in an alleyway on the outskirts of London. It was a bad part of town, and Liam had already woken from the anaesthetic gas. He wasn't moving, in too much shock and having lost too much blood, but his voice floated to John from the other side of the alley. "My?" Liam's voice was very weak, but kept calling. "My?"

John pulled himself up, telling Liam he would be back as soon as possible. He ran to the nearest person, and begged them to call an ambulance, explaining how he and his friend had been attacked and he was passed out. Fortunately, the person he had ran to was a mother with her children. She told the kids to go and play in the park just across the street.  
>"Oh dear. Yes of course, are you okay? Where is he?" John took her over to Liam, who was passed out in the alleyway nearby. While she called the ambulance, John picked Liam up, trying to keep him conscious.<p>

When the ambulance crew arrived, John thanked the woman and got in, as they took Liam in on a stretcher.

"…My?" Liam's eyes were distant, unable to focus. "Where's My?"

"Your what?" The EMT was sorting him as they went around the corner kind of quickly.

"Brother. Mycroft. My. Where's My?" Liam's vision was fuzzy and he started to black out. "M…My." Liam lost consciousness before the EMTs asked his name, but fortunately one of them recognized him and was able to fill in some of his information.

Mycroft arrived quickly to the hospital, rushing in and demanding to see his brother. Sherlock was in critical care, and Mycroft couldn't see him, although he was told that Sherlock was unconscious with severe blood loss and a broken right hand.

"There's evidence of drugs in their systems. Extremely high doses of PCP within the last day for both of them, and cocaine in the bloodstream of your brother, probably within the last two weeks. Did you know they were users?"

"My brother has cocaine addiction troubles, and I highly doubt that either of them would use PCP recreationally," Mycroft snapped. "If you must know, there's a history of being attacked violently, both sexually and otherwise. Let me see them. Dr. Watson, at least." The doctor nodded and Mycroft sat beside John as they tended to his broken ribs, expression asking him to explain what had happened.

John was in a shock blanket when Mycroft came to speak to him in the waiting room. "He attacked us again." John muttered, almost angrily. Mycroft nodded. "You told me that it wouldn't happen again. I trusted you. You're not the British government at all, are you? What actually _do_ you do? Apart from leaking information about your brother to a known criminal mastermind who has used the information to get to us for what, four years now?" Mycroft bit his lip and looked at the floor, not arguing for once. "I don't know why you want to talk to me. I had to do things that I never want to think about, and I'm not going into detail, because what's the point? Nobody will do anything about it anyway." He stood up and stormed out of the waiting area, leaving Mycroft sitting by himself.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he gasped and started flailing weakly, panicking. "John! John!" He'd had a nightmare while unconscious, while the transfusions were being done, once again dreaming that John was transforming into Moran and he wanted more than almost anything to disprove that dream. "John!"

"Mr. Holmes, calm down, you're alright, you're in a hospital."

He froze and blinked, uncertainly, as if trying to focus. His breathing slowly steadied. "Where's John?"

"He's in the next room, just relax." The nurse smiled reassuringly. "Would you like me to bring him in?"

"Yes." Part of him would worry that black memories would come back, that he wouldn't be able to fight any delusions, but he still wanted John near him.

"Alright."

John came in, (now wearing clothes because Mycroft had left him some) quite slowly. "I'm sorry." John began to cry, looking at the state of his arm. "I'm so sorry, I should have just let them. I'm so so so sorry. Please forgive me." Sherlock used his good arm to stroke Johns face to calm him. "I made Mycroft angry and he's gone now. He deserves it though… I think. I don't know. I'm confused."

"I know, John." Sherlock seemed unusually tender. "And the remnants of the drug probably isn't helping. Aren't? I'm tired." He shook his head, his own vision still swimming from blood loss, pain medication, and the end of the PCP. His head fell backwards onto the pillow, trying to force himself awake. "I'm sorry, I…you weren't the only one who—" He took a deep breath. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't Mycroft's fault. It was mine, to get to the root of it. I…I'm…I'd…you should never have had the drug, never have been in that situation. Living life in my head. My broken head."

Sherlock stared at John. He couldn't shake the feeling that John had raped him, too, not just Moriarty and Moran. But he knew that was part of Moriarty's plan, John had no choice. Avery was just as furious, boiling hatred for the one he once professed to love, for coming after him when he was vulnerable, drugged up and protesting. Even Liam didn't want John's presence, just wanted Mycroft, the one person he knew would never take advantage of him. He was shaking violently as he drew his unbroken hand away and curled it into a fist. "John…these past five months, six months, however long it's been. I—it h—I know three things. One: my mind will keep betraying me, no matter how much medication I take, I'll always skip, or Liam, or Avery, and when that happens, I…lose myself. Two: Avery will keep killing. There's nothing we can do to stop it, or very nearly nothing. Three: wherever we go, no matter what we do, Moriarty will keep finding us. And those together, I…I just—" His face contorted. "I want—I want to—" He broke down sobbing, unrestrained as if no one was watching, the same torrent of agony that had poured forth when he'd thought John was dead, as if he'd given up on everything. And he had.

"Do you want them to look after you in a hospital? Or do you want me to.." Avery came forward, throwing punches at John. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to- I had to, they could have killed us both!" Avery used his good arm to squeeze John's throat, until Liam took over and let go. He wasn't much better, though, as he turned over and ignored him. "Liam please. I know Sherlock is the only one who sort of understands- If you want, I'll turn myself into the police. Right now. Is that what you and Avery want?"

"Nnno," Liam whimpered. "I want My. I want you to stay. I don't know. I hurt." He curled into a ball, sobbing still. "I didn't want to sex," he whispered. "You did anyway. I know it was you or the Monsters who were going to sex me, but I didn't want it, I really really didn't…" He stayed quiet for a few seconds, patchy hair shaking with his silent sobs. "I want My."

Mycroft was brought in and Liam clung to him with his good hand. "Liam," he said softly. "Do you still love John?"

"…yes." Liam dug his fingernails into Mycroft's tie. "Yes, I do. I hate him still because of the times he was a Monster, but I love him much more."

Mycroft reached down and made Liam look him in the eye. "Then you need to tell him you forgive him." Liam sniffled, rolled over, and looked at John.

"I'm sorry for hating you," he whispered. "I'm sorry we had to sex you too and I'm sorry we broke your ribs when we were a beehive. I think you have more to forgive me for than I have to forgive you for. Do you forgive me?"

"Yes. I don't need to forgive you, I've never hated you. Avery hates me though, I know that. It's pretty much all over." John sat down in the chair with his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I don't know what to say. Maybe you should just look after your brother while I go away for a while. For the rest of my life, even." Liam sniveled and started to protest. "Liam, please. None of you need me anymore, and I understand. What I did to save myself was wrong. I'll turn myself in."

"D—don't—don't leave please." Liam was crying again. "I need my lion…"

Mycroft looked down at his sobbing brother and shook his head sadly. "May I speak to you alone, John?"

"But—"

"It'll only be for a moment, Liam." Liam fell silent and Mycroft rather insistently led John out of the room. They could hear Liam sobbing, and he wasn't watching them—he'd rolled to his side, feeling abandoned. "I had hoped to look after the both of you at my house. Sherlock would stay in his old room, and, if you wanted, arrangements could be made for you to do the same. There would be an agent in the room next to you. It would be protective custody. It's the best I can offer. However, should you choose to leave him—something that I doubt anyone, except perhaps Moriarty, really wants—I would attempt to convince him it's for the best, though I have no desire to lie to him. And as for turning yourself in, I think your actions would be judged as justifiable, given the circumstances." He stared John down in a way that usually only Sherlock would. "It's up to you."

John frowned. "I need to go home. You stay with him, I'll text all three of them and yourself in the next day or so. I need to decide what's best, and being around him isn't going to help. I'm a _rapist._ I'm as bad as them." He coughed and nodded. "Bye." He walked away awkwardly, squeezing his hands into closed fists.

When he returned to Baker Street there was a note and a cake box on the table.

_'Heard you boys were in a spot of trouble again, and I couldn't cancel my plane to Canada, (I'm going to see my sister.) I left this morning, and thought it'd be nice to leave you something for when you get home from hospital. The beds are made, the dishes are washed along with the laundry. I've bought you more groceries and left my key under the mat downstairs in case you need anything. Hope you both get well soon. __  
><em>_Lots of love, Mrs H. Xxxx'_

John shuddered. The thought of being alone in the flat made him feel physically sick. He felt like there were eyes boring into his back, no matter where he sat in the flat. He strolled into the kitchen to make himself some tea. There was a note, left on the window, from the outside.

'_I enjoyed last night, sexies! Hope to be seeing you soon. - M xxx'_

__He stopped what he was doing and slid down the wall to the floor. He'd been to the flat, meaning he could be inside. He could have left cameras, he could have laced poison into the food. He could have even forced Mrs Hudson into writing the note. He didn't want to think what he was capable of.

"Time for you to have something to eat." The nurse placed the little plate of chicken nuggets on the tray in front of Liam. He stared at the food for a few moments, pupils contracting, hands starting to shake, and suddenly Avery took his cast-covered arm and flung the table over with a roar. He ripped the IV from his arm and ran from the room, knocking down anyone who got in his way as he ran for the lift. The doors opened and he screamed for everyone to get out of the lift, and those who didn't obey were shoved violently. He wildly punched the button for the ground floor, the cafeteria workers in his mental sights, before Sherlock took over and he collapsed in a heap, clutching his head and fighting tears.

He reached for the emergency stop button to cancel his descent, pulled the knob, and sat for a few seconds in stillness before pressing it back in and heading to the rooftop. "Only one way out," he muttered. "Only one way." The lift's gravity altered as he ascended. Finally the doors opened, and he walked onto the rooftop and to the edge of the building. This time, it would be real. No trickery. Just a quick freefall and a sudden stop.

"Sherlock," came a soft voice—Mycroft's voice—from behind him. "Please come down."

"I intend to." His voice cracked even on just the four syllables, the same crack as the last time he'd stood on the roof of a hospital, inches from falling to his death. He could hear where Mycroft was (_ten feet behind, three to the left, stance cautious_)

"Please. Step back."

"You don't understand!" He was on the verge of hysteria, the psychiatric medication not having been included in his IV, and all the voices were back, though Avery's torrent of violence loudest of all. He couldn't see, or at least, didn't register what his eyes were seeing. He was blind to everything but the voices and the wind. "Perpetual torment, Mycroft. Agony. I have to make it stop. He was going to kill the cafeteria workers. Because they served chicken nuggets."

Mycroft's footsteps were inching closer. "Not like this, Sherlock. Don't do this," Mycroft pleaded. "You are an extremely intelligent man, and I've always admired your ability to place your feelings where your mind wouldn't be affected, a skill I've never been able to perfect. Please do that now. I implore you not to do this."

"You…admire me?" Sherlock laughed unsettlingly. "Appealing to my vanity to try to stop me. Good tactic. You know me well." Then the laughing stopped. "It won't work." He inched forward on the ledge, where a simple shift in weight would be enough to let him fall.

"Sherlock! Stop!" Mycroft's voice was more insistent now.

"The last six months have yanked everything I was from me. I was a brain, my body and feelings just footnotes, mere appendices, but…now I'm nothing. Just a mass of twisted neurons in perpetual pain. Hardly the man I once was. I drove the only person I may have actually loved away, possibly for good. I have to make it end." He took a deep breath. "I had hoped that you would never see this, that you'd remember me as I was, when I was whole. Fate is never so kind. Goodbye, Mycroft."

He tipped forward, felt his centre of gravity shift from above the ledge to somewhere in midair. This was it. Finally over. A minor moment of panic struck as gravity had its way with him, feeling himself fall, but it didn't matter now. In just a few seconds, he'd finally be at pea—

A set of familiar, comforting hands grabbed him and pulled him back, and Sherlock collapsed, barely conscious and breathing so heavily he was actually wheezing. Mycroft shouted for paramedics, but Sherlock didn't register anything that was going on as he was brought into the psychiatric ward and given a mild sedative.

When John arrived at the hospital he saw Mycroft outside smoking a cigarette. He was grey in the face. "What's happened?" John nearly tripped as he ran over. Mycroft informed him of what was said and that Sherlock was now on the ward. "Thank you." He ran up the long corridors to the lift. It seemed much slower than usual.

When he got to the room, he was greeted by a nurse. "He's very unwell. Only family will be allowed in at present. Unless you are his spouse?" John nodded, although that was obviously not true. "He's asleep. Feel free to make yourself comfortable."

Sherlock was snoring softly as usual. John noticed two IV's being hooked up to him, one was for his usual medication. He squirmed in his seat, feeling rather uncomfortable. Mycroft came in quietly, and put one hand on John's shoulder. It was a small but rather affectionate gesture.

"I don't know if he'll be alright," Mycroft said softly. "It was Avery. According to Sherlock, he was going to kill the hospital cafeteria staff because they served him chicken nuggets. Sherlock…he couldn't take it." Mycroft's voice nearly cracked and he turned away. "I'm sorry. I…" He left the room, going to the lavatory to hide his tears.

Sherlock opened his eyes slightly. "John?" His voice was soft, low, weak. "I'm…not sure what happened. It's foggy. I just remember wanting to fall." He looked at his arm and the dual IVs. "Antidepressant, undoubtedly. Sherlock Holmes tried to kill himself therefore Sherlock Holmes must be depressed. Brilliant deduction." He tilted his head slightly and sighed. "My mind's…fuzzy. Almost blank. Instead of half a dozen simultaneous thoughts, I'm down to two. Slow thoughts. Calm thoughts. Less intense." He looked at John, curious. "Is this what it's like being you, being ordinary? Sort of…a tube station instead of King's Cross?"

"I suppose." John croaked. "I'm sorry I left. Maybe I could have stopped Avery." He stopped speaking and let out a huge sigh. "I don't know. I'm to blame, I suppose." He ran his fingers through his hair- now shaggy, as he hadn't been to a hairdressers in a few months. Sherlock didn't reply, it was almost as if he was trying to find the correct response. "Are you hungry?" John tapped his hand on his knee. "I could go and get you something that _isn't _chicken nuggets." He forced a small smile.

When Mycroft returned, composed, John went to the cafeteria to get Sherlock some soup. On the way, he kept his eyes on each doorway that he passed, in case he was pulled into one of them. His paranoia felt like it was getting worse. He shook his head and did what he set out to do.

Sherlock was asleep when John got back. Mycroft had waited, just in case. "You should go and sleep, Mycroft. You don't look well. I'll be here." He nodded, shook Johns hand and left.

Sherlock was dreaming. The dream was far simpler than he was used to. He was standing in a chapel, in a black tuxedo. John stood beside him, in angelic white. They were getting married. But the words were garbled, making nearly no sense.

"Does the John of Fusiliers steal Sherlock of Detective for eternal no-sharing?"

"Always," said John.

"Sherlock of Detective, do you steal John of Fusiliers for eternal non-sharing?"

Sherlock stared, unable to make sense of the words. "I…" Before he could figure it out, Avery phased into view in all-black, right down to the shirt he wore with his tux, and flicked open his knife, stabbing Sherlock in the chest. Blood spread over his shirt, bright red staining the shirt crimson, everyone just standing and watching as Sherlock fell to the ground, Avery carving a hole in his chest and ripping out his heart.

Avery smirked, eyes manic and murderous as he held Sherlock's still-beating heart in his hand. "You didn't deserve this." Sherlock gasped, unable to speak, struggling to move, dying but still aware. Avery turned to John. "Continue the promise-making," he said. John frowned and backed away.

"Cancel. Cancel! Not you! Only for consummation." Avery frowned at John and tried to stab him, too, but Liam materialized and took the knife-attack as the priest (Mrs. Hudson) bound Avery with ropes she got from nowhere. Liam fell to the ground, scarlet covering his old-world dress uniform as he started to gasp for breath.

"Don't fly." Liam clung to John's shirt, staining the white bright red. "Before I go dark, don't fly."

"I'll stay," John said. "You only have a soul. Sherlock long ripped it out. Avery never glowed." Liam nodded weakly, breathing growing slower and slower, crying (and somehow Sherlock was watching, though he was long dead by now, his fingers going cold), grip getting weaker until he was dead. John let out a roar and cradled the body of the child, howling with grief, ignoring both the dead Sherlock and the tied-up Avery.

Sherlock spoke before he woke up. "Doesn't want me. Not anymore. Understandable." His eyes opened and he looked over to John. "Um…I dreamed. We were getting married. Avery killed me and when you said you didn't love him, he tried to kill you. Liam took the knife and you…you said…that Avery and I didn't have a soul but Liam did. When he died, he was the only one whose death you mourned." Sherlock frowned. "Did you—why did you come back?"

"I'd mourn you more than anybody." John swallowed, closing his eyes. "I came back because I was worried out of my mind. I had second thoughts about leaving for good. Avery hates me, and I wouldn't be surprised if you did too. Liam is the only one who doesn't hate me _too_ much."  
>John sipped on the coffee the nurse had brought in for him. "I feel like shit, though I bet you feel even worse. God. I'm such a dick. I'm <em>sorry<em>." He winced at the word. "I should have let them do what they wanted, then we wouldn't be here, not really." A heavy tear splashed down from his eye onto his jeans. "Ugh. I understand if you three want me gone."

"I understand why you did what you did. And I did it too, remember? Not to mention your broken ribs. And this." Sherlock held up his broken and sliced-up arm. "Self-inflicted, or near enough." He swallowed. "I've done worse. Moriarty's fault, all of it. I—" His face froze. "Av—" He shook, fighting the change but failing. Suddenly Avery's hand was around John's throat again. "I was vulnerable. I was barely conscious, I was hallucinating, I was _scared_. You took advantage of me. I know it was their fault, their doing, but you could have fought them actually waited for them to come in to rape us, then fought them, killed them, but no, you gave in, you coward, you rapist, you—" He squeezed harder just as the hospital personnel pulled him away. "Get the fuck out of my life, you—you—" He ran out of words and mindlessly roared, struggling against the nurses, fighting them as hard as he could, resulting in his sedation.

John tapped his phone in his hand, thinking about contacting Mycroft. No, he seemed pretty worn out, it'd be best to wait. He felt sick, dizzy and sweaty. He wasn't sure if he had a bug or if it was pure guilt. He wanted to throwhimself from a great height for what he'd done, but he quickly shook the thought from his mind.

When Avery woke, he was strapped up to the bed. John didn't try speaking to him, until Avery screeched. "I thought it would have been better than them raping you, or them castrating you. I didn't want to. I had to. Why is it that you're the _only _one that doesn't understand? I didn't _want _to. I'd never hurt you willingly. I have broken ribs and I was drugged up too- not that it justifies anything. So what is it that you want me to do? Kill myself? You tell me."

"I didn't say you wanted to. I only said you did," Avery spat. "And as for what I want you to do, I don't want you dead. Believe me. I'd shoot myself if you offed yourself. I just want you out. Gone. Away from me, somewhere you can't hurt me again or where Moriarty can't get you." He struggled against the straps, shouting, full of rage. "I'm on these meds, so I'm mostly rational, and I don't want you dead. But you make me sick. It didn't even occur to you that they'd come in to rape us again if you didn't, and, even drugged and weak, that we could have taken them?" Avery took deep breaths, realizing that it hadn't occurred to him, either, and that he'd actually gone first. "I'm disgusted. With you. With me. With Moriarty and Moran. Right now I wouldn't kill you. Give me an hour. So get out before I do something I'll shoot myself for."

"Oh, and where am I meant to go? I can't call your brother, he's worn out. I can't go back to the flat, Moriarty has been there, Mrs Hudson is gone. I have no idea where I'm meant to go or what I'm meant to do; I don't know where I'm protected… And we couldn't of taken them, as much as I wish we could of. I've never been that high in my life, and you were pretty much bleeding to death so I had to do something quick…" He stood up and shook his head. "I'll fuck off to a hotel or something. I might even buy a new flat."

Avery stared at the ceiling. "I don't care where the hell you go. Just get out." He sighed as John left, and the instant he did, he felt better. Anyone who had hurt him was gone. He was better off alone.

Mycroft literally ran into John on his way into the hospital. "John? He's attacked you," he said, observing the bruises on John's neck. He looked down and away before hesitantly hugging him. "His mind is…difficult to understand, though especially right now. If you insist on staying away—and, with this development, I am almost willing to encourage it—I'm certain Zapharia would be more than willing to put you up. And if she isn't, I can remind her that I own her flat." He smiled weakly. "Sherlock will stay with me. If that's what you want, of course."

"I'll go to a hotel until I find a flat. I'll never see them again, if that's what he wants. Thank you, for everything, really. If anybody wants me, my phone is with me at all times." He stormed out of the hospital, back to Baker street, just to pack some bags.

"Hello." A deep, familiar voice cooed from the living room. John turned to run but Jim was in the doorway with a grin. "Thought we'd find you here, didn't we, boss? See, since you're my favourite, boss wants you to come with us, for a few days. Maybe weeks. Depends on how I feel." John tried to protest, but as he opened his mouth, a cloth was shoved over it, and he slowly passed out.

When he woke up, he was in a dark room. Handcuffed to a double bed, he guessed- expensive, designer room. Moriarty's house, he thought. There was pictures of Sherlock and John; walking around the streets, in tesco, in hospitals and on cases covering the walls. John sighed and rolled his eyes. His phone was right next to him, clearly meaning to annoy. He listened to it chime every ten minutes, wondering who was looking for him.

"John?" Sherlock had phased in not long after John had left. He registered that he was restrained, and fought to restrain panic. Probably gone for the night, he thought. But when John didn't come fitful hours later, Sherlock was starting to grow upset again. They'd unrestrained him and allowed him his phone, and he kept texting John, trying to either wake him or get him to reply. He kept flashing back to those nights before this had all started, when his mind was one, before he was broken into pieces.

_John. When you come back tomorrow, please bring Hamish.  
>SH<em>

_John. You are coming back?  
>SH<em>

_Please. Come back.  
>S<em>

_Don't do this._

_Do'nt be ddead._

His hands shook and he felt himself beginning to panic, imagining that John had killed himself over this incident. "Don't. Please," he whispered.

"Let me have one phone call." John shouted, as he'd been left there. Moriarty and Sebastian had been shagging on the floor for about 4 hours, and it was growing rather irritating, listening to the same groans for hours on end. They hadn't touched him, yet. Moriarty jumped up, and put Johns phone on speaker for a few seconds, ringing Sherlock.  
>"They've got me. I wanted to come back, I can't. Don't think this means I don't care, Sherlock, I lo-" The phone cut dead. Moriarty grinned, pulling out a small blade, running it over John's scars with a gleam in his eyes.<p>

Sherlock's head was still slightly sluggish and it took a few seconds to work out what he meant. When it did, he felt himself blacking out in shock and took a few grunts to keep himself conscious—he had to tell someone. Fortunately, at that moment, Mycroft came back.

"Mycroft—John—Moriarty, he—December again, you have to find him, you have to get him—"

"Slow down, Sherlock. What do you mean?" Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder as the younger Holmes twisted himself to try to sit up, his ankles still bound.

"December. Have you forgotten? He's got John! Again! And there's nothing I can do about it. They could be torturing him again, Mycroft, they could be doing anything, anything at all, you have to find him, use the GPS on his phone, do whatever you can, just make sure he's safe!" Sherlock was nearly hysterical, and Mycroft bounded out of the room, headed toward his office and phoning Lestrade on the way. Sherlock called for a nurse, who came running just as quickly as Mycroft had left. "Have to let me go," he said. "Find John, have to save him again, my fault, my selfish stupid fault, Avery!"

The nurse was bewildered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but you have to stay until after the psychiat—"

"Let me go!" It was more a roar than anything, and he reached down to try to undo the straps. He was sedated yet again to a level where he was still conscious, but only just.

When he recovered, his phone blinked with a voicemail. It was Mycroft.

"His GPS is currently disabled. We have no idea where his phone is at present, but we're honing in on his last location. He called you from his mobile. It's still on—I've tried calling it, but we can't narrow it down further than the neighborhood. Searching it for him and for Moriarty is going to take time. I'm doing my best."

Sherlock fell back into his pillow and Liam came forward, reading Sherlock's last messages and listening to the voicemail. He howled in emotional pain.

John had passed out from blood loss, only to be woken up on a hospital bed. He sighed, wondering why Moriarty hadn't raped him, and why he'd just let him go. A nurse came into the room, and they closed the blinds. John groaned and asked if they wouldn't mind letting some light in. The next thing he knew, a large syringe was sticking out of his arm. "You didn't think we'd just release you. No. Jim has this place for when he hurts his pets too much." John tried to speak but he couldn't form words. "Don't waste your energy trying to speak, John. There's no point. Oh, by the way, Sherlock has been informed of what we're going to do to you. We sent him a little… shall we say, note?" Seb kissed John before he passed out.

Liam stared at the picture message, a crudely photoshopped picture of John with a gun, and threw the phone across the room, shaking. "Don't be a Monster again please please don't be a Monster…"

Mycroft and a few agents arrived at the house, barged inside, and saw the evidence. There was blood, but not enough to have killed whoever was bleeding. There were condoms on the floor, and more than enough photographs on the wall to prove a definite obsession. This was Moriarty's house. And John was no longer there.

"Get any little forensic clue you can, he's somewhere, we just have to find out where."

"Sir, this place is larger than the biggest Army Base we have." One of Mycrofts workers pointed out. "We need more men." Mycroft nodded, sent a text on his phone and waited for more back up.

When they finally found John, he was crawling towards the door, blood dripping from his chest. "Ambulance." Said one of Mycrofts men to his colleague, he nodded and rang for one.

John wasn't aware of his surroundings, the only thing he knew was that he was being moved somewhere. Probably by Moriarty for more torture.

They put him on the stretcher and lifted him into the ambulance. Mycroft followed in his car, and as they got out and wheeled him inside, he did his best to utter a reassuring "It's alright, John, you're safe now."

It was not the same as Sherlock's hospital—they figured closer was better than more familiar, if they were going to tend to his injuries quickly. Mycroft sent Anthea to sign Sherlock's discharge papers and bring him where John was, and as they came into the room, Liam charged for John and hugged him tightly, crying and not caring about the pain the pressure might cause. "John, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, why did you leave? The Monsters got you again and please don't ever leave me alone again, I love you too much and I'm sorry you always get hurt because of me, I love you, please be okay, please I hope your mind is nice to you this time, please wake up, please say you love me, please say you'll never leave. Please, John, please, I need you and I love you and I want you forever…"

"I wish they'd killed me." John muttered. "I don't know. They had sex in front of me while I was tied up, I was cut and filled with drugs. They could have raped me but I don't know. I don't think they did." He sipped his water. "You can go." He gestured to the door before he turned onto his side, facing the wall. John heard Avery snarl before he came over and turned him to face him. "Go." John repeated. "You don't love me, or want me anymore, I'm nothing but a 'sick rapist' so there is obviously no reason for us to speak."

"Be careful whose emotions you toy with," Avery whispered dangerously. "I…when I was out, when you were gone, I realized…" He frowned. "Soft emotions are not my forte." He shifted in his seat. "And neither are apologies. I was wrong. But if you want me to leave, I will." He stood and went to the door. "Get out of my way, Mycroft. He doesn't want me here any more."

"I'm not going to let you walk out." Mycroft was blocking the doorway, and the brothers' eyes met and made the temperature of the room drop. "I won't let you do this."

"It's not any of your business."

"You're my brother. Your well-being is entirely my business." Silence followed before Avery returned to John's side with a sigh. Avery smiled at John, a very unusual tenderness. He reached to John's wounds, but John slapped him away.

"You're right. I'm…sorry. It wasn't your fault, neither of us thought of attacking them. Hindsight. But don't think I don't want you any more. Because I do. Just…on my terms, not Moriarty's." He took John's hand and kissed it, almost like someone from an old film. "I love you. Never doubt that. I just have strange ways of showing it."

John nodded. "I love you too. I need to sleep, I feel dreadful. Be here when I wake up, okay?" Avery nodded and John turned over, leaving him to his own devices.

When John woke up from a dreamless sleep, Avery was smoking in the corner, reading. "You should really stop doing that in here, they'll kick you out, even if they do think you're my husband." Avery scoffed and turned the page of his book. "I'm sorry, Avery. I really am. I understand why you were angry at me. I just didn't want you to end up worse off than you would have been. I hope you can forgive me, even though I can't quite forgive myself." John sipped sat up and sipped his water.

"Don't do that," Avery said sharply. "Not the water, go ahead and have that. Just don't do the self-pity thing. Makes you weak." He took another drag before stamping it out, having seen nurses on the way, who glared at him as they entered. They checked John over, cleaned his chest wounds, and replaced the bandages, all while Avery watched. He clenched his good fist, uncomfortable, as the voices were starting to come back. He shut his eyes and shook his head slightly before standing suddenly. "Back in a moment."

He rushed down to Mycroft, who had been given Sherlock's pills by Anthea. "I need them. The choir's back." Mycroft surreptitiously handed Avery his pill regimen, now at four pills, and Avery took them gratefully. "Have to wait for them to kick in. Going to the cafeteria. Getting John some food." He staggered down the hallway, blinking uncertainly, and the combination of drugs in his system made him fall sideways into the wall. His blood pressure was too low. He leaned against it for a moment.

"Sh—Avery, do you want help?" Mycroft had come up behind him and spoke gently.

"Fine. Just dizzy. Low blood pressure. Nicotine, along with everything else. And I haven't slept properly in ages. I'm fine." He took a deep breath and continued downstairs. He stared at the food in the cafeteria, trying to work out what John wanted, and felt the voices of his victims as well as Sherlock and Liam start to fade. He smiled. "Quiet," he whispered, picking up a vanilla yoghurt for John and a bagel and some cream cheese for himself. He paid for it and returned to the room, where another dizzy spell took him and he ended up more tumbling into his chair than anything. "Don't worry, I'm fine. Just nicotine plus my other pills and a hint of exhaustion. Got you yoghurt." He held it out. "Vanilla."

"Thank you." John smiled weakly. "When can we go home? Back to Mycrofts, or the flat.. I don't know. When can we leave?" Avery shrugged and sat down. John ate his yoghurt in silence.

"Hello. We can discharge you tomorrow, Doctor Watson." The nurse smiled, fluffed his pillows and left. John groaned. "You can go home if you want. I don't expect you to stay."

Avery smiled, almost disturbingly (for him) gently. "I'll stay. If one of his minions comes to fuck up your meds, who'll stop them?" He reached down and kissed John on the forehead. "I…I thought I'd lost you again. I realized I didn't really want you gone. I want you to stay as much as the others, and when—I had horrible visions in my head when you wouldn't answer your phone. You, in an alley, bleeding to death, unable to reach for your phone. At home, blowing your brains out with your illegal firearm. In a park, looking just like one of…my victims. Slitting your wrists in the bathtub. Getting raped so hard you died. Following Sherlock's lead and jumping from the roof. Doing something stupid and getting shot. Finding the morphine in the—at home, shooting yourself up, knowing it was too much for your body to take. Going after Moran on your own again but ending up with your balls ripped off and bleeding out. Drowning yourself in the Thames." His hand was shaking and a small tear came from his eyes and splashed onto John's nose. "You're the only thing I care about, John. Well, and Sherlock, but that falls under self-preservation for the most part. Just those pictures in my mind…I…I couldn't take it if any of them had been true." He sniffled slightly. "Stupid soft emotions." He chuckled. "Not to mention exhaustion. I meant it when I said I'd rather see you comatose than dead. I'd still have you then. I can't lose you. I…I can't…" He climbed in the bed. "Spouse's privilege," he muttered. "I'm never going to let them take you from me again, I promise." Avery kissed John's ear and put his head against John's, and within seconds, John could feel Avery/Sherlock/Liam's snoring on his shoulder.

John decided to stay awake, out of fear. Though nothing had really happened, he certainly felt like something had changed. He decided it wasn't worth dwelling on, before texting Zapharia.

_Hope you're well, things are a bit hectic here._

_-John_

The nurse came in with water for John. "I understand you're worried about your safety here? Since your previous visit we've secured everything. I'll lock the door for you, you just need to get some sleep, okay love? See you in the morning."

John nodded, and dropped off to sleep, feeling safe for once in the comfort of Avery.

Sometime in the night, Avery reached his arm over John, as if protecting him. He wasn't dreaming, just feeling better with the rising and falling of John's chest beside him. He smiled and gently licked John's ear in his sleep.


	13. Happiness and Experimentation

Sunrise came and Sherlock jerked awake, startled. It woke John up, too, and Sherlock winced suddenly, having strained his hand, but realized that he was safe and, just as importantly, John was safe. He lay back down. "Having trouble sleeping. You should rest." He lay his head back beside John's and waited for John to fall asleep again before he closed his eyes.

It was the voices that woke him up again, Avery and Liam arguing. Not violently, but a certain disagreement. He blearily opened his eyes and saw them standing on John's other side, Avery as always smoking, and Liam in his pirate's garb. They were fighting over what to get John to eat. Liam, of course, wanted to get him desserts, while Avery was in favour of meats.

_It would make him feel better!_

_He needs to rebuild iron and protein with that much blood loss._

_But—_

"Stop," Sherlock whispered. He felt ill, the tickling of something else going on in his mind, something new. "Just stop." John opened his eyes tiredly. "Not you, you need to keep resting for now. Probably." He frowned. "Not sure. They're distracting." Avery and Liam were staring at him, and Avery twitched his nose while Liam apologized. "It…every time something happens, there's something else added to my hallucinations. First time it was Avery. Then Liam. Then I was hearing the voices of Avery's victims, Avery's choir. Now…" He winced as the sound in his mind grew stronger. "Violin. Loud. Cacaphonic. It makes no sense, it's wild. Manic. I…I need my medications," he said, and rolled backward, falling off the bed with a _whump_, and momentarily disorientated, he giggled. He stood and groaned, breathing a little hard. "Do you mind," he snapped at the air, at Liam tugging on his trouser leg.

_Are you okay?_

"Fine."

_Our arm hurts._

"I know, the pain medication has worn off." He walked out of the room to the nurses, where he told them he required his medication. He took it, all four pills, with a glass of water, before returning to John's room. He sat in the chair and took John's hand with his good one.

_I think you love him more than me._

_More even than I do._

"I don't, I can't. I've tried. I'm still trying." Sherlock lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Sorry. Talking to them. They'll fade in a few minutes, once the medication has reached my brain." He looked up. "They'll run a few more checks and then we can go home. I can finish my case, you can recover, we'll get back to normal." He flashed a smile. "Well, we can try." He squeezed John's hand. "That _is_ what you want, isn't it? Forget this happened? I know I have to finish this case, prove to myself I'm still worth something."

"Alright. I can't wait to be out of here, I'm starting to miss Mrs Hudson's cups of tea." He forced a smile. "How many tests? What do they need to do?"  
>"Alright, Doctor Watson. We need to test your blood pressure and then you're free to go."<br>John smiled. "Great."

After they'd tested John's blood pressure,(which was a little high, but Sherlock was able to convince them that he'd be just fine under Mycrofts care) they allowed him to leave. John shrugged on clean clothes and his coat before strolling out of the hospital unsteadily clinging on to Sherlocks arm.  
>"Right. We're going home and we're watching some Monty Python. I feel like crap. You're on tea making duty."<p>

"Going to Baker Street," Sherlock said. "May not be safer, but it's home." He got into the backseat of one of Mycroft's cars and fiddled with his phone. "Yes, I'll make tea. Need to work on the case, need to prove to myself I still have a reason to live." He turned to John and smiled slightly. "I feel. I feel…happy. It's the medication, I know. I feel…good. Not satisfied with everything, but…happy. And I think I'm the closest to…to being…in love that I've ever been." He coughed awkwardly. "I'm not used to this. When I see you…when you smile…I feel…my pulse quickens, my breathing increases. Tactile contact is desirable, regardless of what happened earlier. Like…like there's sunshine in my head." He cautiously took John's hand. "I know we're no longer together. I'm fine with that, I really don't want anything permanent, nothing committed, but…when you're happy, I feel…young. Fresh, like mountain air rather than the recent dungeon I have been. Like a different person. Someone…with a heart." He tilted his head slightly. "I've felt it before, through Liam, when you're happy, but never on my own. Never when they're hidden." He cautiously reached over and brushed his lips to John's. "I feel faint. But a good faint. Do…I mean, this is right? I've never…uh…" He cleared his throat and looked away, blushing slightly.

John beamed, although he was trying not to smile like an idiot, he couldn't help himself. He leaned up and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.  
>"This medication is having a rather odd effect on you. Not a bad odd, a good odd." Sherlock nodded, but his face said that he didn't quite agree.<p>

When they got back to Baker street, Mrs Hudson greeted them with open arms. "Oh boys, I'm so glad you're back. I had a lovely holiday, but I was worried sick when I heard what had happened. Come on, upstairs. I'll make you both some tea." John smiled at Sherlock before he walked up the stairs.

He handed John his tea and sat beside him on the sofa. "This is strange. I like it. It's…it's like…a high, but…a high I've only felt once." He almost didn't feel like explaining further, but did anyway after another few sips of tea. "I knew that my mother used to take Ecstasy on a regular basis prior to her marriage. I wanted to see why she did. I took it once. Before I met Natalia, while I was on my own. I didn't like it." He shrugged. "Too happy. Wasn't right. No reason for the happiness. It was a distraction."

He finished his tea and set it down. "I hope it won't be a distraction now. Could prove fatal. At any rate, in this state, it would be absolutely disastrous for you to fall into wrong hands. I'm…overemotional." He stared ahead as Louis rubbed their legs, not sure what to do. Emotionally, he wanted physical contact, to stay close to John, almost to cuddle, but intellectually, he knew it wasn't right for him. For Liam perhaps, but not for himself. Then he faded and Liam came forward.

Liam tilted his head, before gasping and beaming. He had an idea. He scrambled to take out his phone to text Mycroft and sent it before John could see what it read. Liam put his head on John's shoulder and sighed contentedly. "I love your smell and your squishiness. You're cuddly like Hamish but better because you're real." He giggled. "And no, I won't tell you what I just told My. It's a surprise." He wrapped his good hand around John's. "I was wrong," he said happily. "I thought I couldn't love you any more than I did. The happy pills made me love you more." His silver eyes looked up at John's. "I love you for a million billion zillion years."

"I love you too." John kissed him on the cheek. He sipped his tea and hugged Liam tightly. "You mentioned a present before, what is it?" Liam giggled and swung his legs around. "Go on?" John laughed, and shook his head. "What? Come on, the suspense is killing me."

"It's a surprise, you silly! I'll give it to you when it's ready." The door clicked shut and Liam smiled. "Hold on, My, he's not hiding yet." He stood John up and handed him _The Hobbit_before walking him to Sherlock's room. "Stay here and read! I have a surprise to make for you." He giggled once more as the door shut, leaving John alone with his book.

John was naturally unnerved at being alone anywhere, especially in a place with a window Moriarty was known to have climbed through. But he did his best to ignore the sensation, and began to read. After about half an hour, there was a knock on the door.

"Close your eyes, John," Liam called. "And move over so I can sit there, too." When he was sure John had done so, Liam came in. "Open your mouth. I have food. Keep your eyes closed!" John heard the sound of a bite being cut from something with a spoon. "This is you," Liam said as he put a spoonful of warm, hot brownie in John's mouth. "Yummy! Eat it, silly. But keep your eyes shut." John chewed and swallowed. "Now here's me and Sherlock and Avery." Cold ice cream met John's tongue and he let it melt before swallowing. He figured it was either Neapolitan or strawberry flavour. "Eyes shut! Now here's us together." Another bite was put gently in his mouth, this time of both brownie and ice cream. "Not done yet!" John finished the bite, unsure of what was coming next. He felt Liam lean forward and felt him kiss John's left eyelid and then his right. "Okay," he said softly, and John looked. Liam was softly smiling as he held out a bowl of brownie à la mode. "It's our dessert. I used Neapolitan instead of vanilla because there's three of me. Avery is the chocolate because he's seductive and dark, I'm the vanilla because I'm pure and simple, and that leaves Sherlock as the strawberry because he's the most complicated and the one you wouldn't expect to go with the brownie but somehow it works." He sat beside John with his own bowl. "My had to crack the eggs for me because of my hand, but otherwise I did it all by myself."

John smiled and tucked into his dessert. "It's really good, I didn't know any of you could cook this well." Liam nodded and put his head on John's shoulder. "Thank you, Liam. You all look after me so well, I don't deserve it." Liam sighed and stroked Louis, dropping some ice cream onto the floor for him to lap up. "Don't do tha- never mind." He smiled and rubbed his eyes. "I'm so tired. When we've finished this could we watch the films you wanted to watch in bed? I need to rest, I think."

Liam nodded happily and shared the dessert. "I'll be right back," he said and left the room for two minutes to take his medicine. When he returned, John was fast asleep and Liam curled up next to him and wrapped his arms around him. "You deserve more than I can give you, silly John," Liam whispered. "You're an angel stuck on Earth with people. You've just forgotten that you have wings." Louis lay beside their heads and washed, the gentle rocking and purring lulling Liam to a dreamless sleep.

John was awakened by Sherlock's lip brush. "Good morning. I'm still…close to love." He looked slightly troubled. "Not used to it. But I feel life's worth living. I've already had my medication. Take yours." He handed John his usual pill along with a painkiller and after John took it, a glass of water. "No more nightmares," he said. "I do need to work some today. Killer on the loose, remember?" He smirked and once again brushed his lips to John's and went to the living room to get to work.

**Sherlock's blog:**

How does one differentiate between genuine love which has been…frozen, for lack of another term, hidden so deeply one has been unaware of it, and a chemically altered state resembling the euphoria of love?

To clarify: how can one tell if one is genuinely in love but it was unrealized or if it is simply a product of altered neurochemistry?

**Mycroft:** Are you unwell, Sherlock?

**Sherlock:** Not sure. I feel unusual. Hard to focus, on the verge of queasiness, euphoria, and I find myself almost not minding, which is the disconcerting part.

**Mycroft:** I understand your concern and to a point, I share it. Is it aimed at anyone in particular is it or a generic feeling of euphoria?

**Sherlock:** Not sure. Only been in John's extended company since I began taking this medication, hence an inability to differentiate between drug-induced pleasure and an emotional unblocking of repressed emotion.

**Mycroft:** Perhaps experimentation would be an advisable course of action.

**Sherlock:** I agree. Considering inviting Natalia. She's the only other person who may be able to help without getting entangled in emotion.

**Mycroft:** If you think it would be safe. I am not fond of your association with her, as you know. You should also consult John. Natalia may be able to avoid unnecessary entanglements and stay detached to help you figure this out, but it would be difficult for John.

**Sherlock:** I know that, Mycroft.

John frowned and scratched his head. He could Sherlock humming the tune to a song in the living room. It felt strange, domestic. John got out of bed and went into the bathroom for a shower, and when he came out in a towel he noticed Sherlock sitting in the chair watching him. He said nothing about this and went to get changed, deciding it was better not to touch on the subject of sexual desire while Sherlock was still getting used to feelings.

John came in wearing one of his new jumpers, (a gift from Harry, who was always complaining about his fashion sense) and jeans. It felt weird not being in pajamas after the hospital. "Do you want me to come with you today? I thought the nurses wanted me to stay in bed. I got changed just in case." Sherlock was frowning and playing his violin, almost like he was in a sulk with himself. "And, are you okay?" Sherlock nodded and grunted, but didn't reply. "I'll make tea."

"Milk and sugar." He put the violin down and sat in his seat. "I'm not sure if I'm fine. Not used to this. I almost don't like it. Not sure if it's directly aimed at you or if it's just general euphoria." He watched John closely, happy, hoping John shared it. "This feeling…it reminds me of—never mind, stupid." John looked at Sherlock as if encouraging him to continue. "Early childhood. The sort of emotional sensation I had when I would fall asleep in the back of the car and Mother would bring me inside, unaware I was half-awake instead of completely out." He fell silent until John brought him the tea. He blew into it to cool it slightly before speaking again. "I want to know if it's me, if it's the medicine producing nonspecific happiness or if it's unique to my reaction to you." He sipped. "I would like your permission, of course, even though we are no longer courting, I understand that seeing me engaging in physical and romantic contact with someone else would be stressful. I would prefer someone who would be able to remain detached, emotionally, someone who can keep their distance and not mistake emotional experimentation for genuine unexpressed love." He took another sip, watched as John's lips tightened—he didn't like the thought of this, obviously, but Sherlock pressed on regardless. "I was considering Natalia. This afternoon, after I've gotten what I needed from Bart's. Avery took over and I was unable to work properly last time. Today I don't so much as feel him, except as if a half-forgotten dream." He took another sip. "Would you consent to being present for such an experiment?"

"I suppose since we're not together I can't stop you, but I don't want to be there." He felt the colour draining out of his face. He cleared his throat and nodded, before leaving the room, going into his own room to think. _Why is it that everything is an experiment to him? He can't just feel, no, instead, he has to see why he feels. _John sighed, flopping down onto the bed.

After a few long hours of sulking, John popped his head around the door. Sherlock wasn't in, by the looks of it. He slunk out of the room and sat down, turning the TV on. He decided not to text Sherlock, in case he was angry. He could hear what was probably Mrs Hudson coming upstairs, probably to ask if they'd had a domestic. He slumped down onto the sofa, trying to hide himself from view. Whoever it was, came to the door, opened it, and closed it again, before walking back down the stairs. Something didn't feel right to John, so he decided it would probably be best to contact Sherlock.

Sherlock had been thinking over John's reaction all afternoon. _We're not together, he said it himself, why would he mind? Sentiment, I expect. I suppose I'll have to pursue it on my own._ The medication was having an unusual effect on him, and even other people were noticing it. "You look lovely today, Molly."

"I, uh, thanks, I haven't done anything special." She fiddled with her hair, not used to being complimented and certainly not by Sherlock.

"I know," he replied with a smile. "Nevertheless, you are especially attractive today."

She blushed and looked at him carefully. "You're not—I mean, you haven't—I don't want to be insensitive, but have you taken something?"

He replied matter-of-factly, if a bit cheerfully. "Yes, four somethings, all of them prescription and none of them beyond the prescribed dosage. Makes for curious changes."

"…okay."

After he had finished his examination of the newest body, missing a kidney again, he headed to Scotland Yard to ask for further details on the patients. He found himself staring at Lestrade's retreating backside when he was finished and decided it was time to head home before he made any blunders.

Just before John texted, he walked up the stairs. "John?" He walked up to John's room and knocked. "John, I…I didn't mean to upset you. It's just this medication, I need to know if it's opened me, given me a heart, or if it's just playing with my brain. If it's the medication, I'll get something else. Hussey can tell Jenkins all about how I react badly to sudden influxes of emotion." There was no answer. "John, please tell me you're in there."

John opened the door. "Did you say, Hussey?" He frowned. "You do know what happened, don't you?" Sherlocks expression stayed blank. "Avery…" He looked down at his hands. "He got hold of him." Sherlock went very pale in the face and he half gasped before composing himself.

After a few cups of tea, Sherlock was back to the present issue. "I think you need to try this experiment. If you _do_ have romantic attraction, I guess I'll have to live with it, no matter how difficult it'll seem."

"Thank you. For helping." Sherlock had decided to worry about Hussey later and focus on what his mind and heart were doing now. _ Something else to add to my list of how my medication is altering my priorities._ He took out his phone and called Natalia. "I'd appreciate it if you would come to the flat as soon as possible. Romantic experiment." He hung up and nodded. "She's on her way." He moved to the sofa and motioned for John to join him. He placed his head on John's shoulder, not unlike Liam, and wrapped John's other arm around him, cuddling closer. "Now we wait. Why am I nervous? It's not like I'm going to be hurt by this, all it can do is educate."

"You may get hurt by this." John corrected him with a sigh. "Now that your emotions are involved, or may be involved, there is a high risk." Sherlock sighed, looking up at John worriedly. "So, what are you planning to do? What is this experiment, and do I need to be present for it? I'd much rather go down to tesco or something."

Sherlock frowned. "Just a kiss, nothing more. To see if I'm similarly attracted. Ideally you'd both need to be here. I don't want you to be hurt, but in order to have only one variable—a man versus a woman—the kisses would have to be as close to the same time as possible." He stared at John carefully, evaluating him. "I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but in essence I feel like the teenager encountering a sexual awakening, and you're the one I choose to turn to."

The doorbell rang and he showed Natalia in, explaining to her his predicament. She nodded, just as much a scientist as Sherlock, understanding the need to figure himself out. "I shall do it without expecting anything in return, Sherlock, but you have to understand that I already have an emotional attachment."

"So does John. The only variable is the sex of the recipient. This is carefully planned." He sighed in preparation, steeling himself to feel something he may not expect to. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John, significantly more fervour than usual, less cautious, less hesitant, vastly more emotional, something deeper than Avery gave, and John could feel the instant his self-restraint kicked in and Sherlock pulled away, the instant his hands hovered beside John's ears, ready to grab John's head to delve deeper. He cleared his throat and nodded to himself before kissing Natalia in the same way. She reciprocated, and this time, Sherlock grabbed her head and made to kiss further and more passionately before breaking away. "I…" He stood and made his way to his room in silence, closing the door and putting a do not disturb sign on the handle.

Natalia smiled as Irene Adler had done when discussing Sherlock's then-virginity. "You should have seen him the first time he was high." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "Sixteen years old, a dark evening in eastern Europe, the sexualisation from the cocaine giving him what I'm fairly certain has been his only erection." She thought for an instant. "Well," she said, a hand on John's shoulder. "Until you, I presume." She did not know about Sherlock's reaction to the taste of blood, but assumed that as there had been some sexual experience between himself and John, even Sherlock could be stimulated by something. "Even his second high, there was no such reaction. Just as well for our relationship—the experience was highly distracting for the both of us." She grinned.

John mumbled an incoherent reply before wandering off to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. Seeing Sherlock kiss another person had hurt him more than he'd expected it to. He tried to remind himself that it was nothing but an experiment, but the fact that Sherlock had kissed Natalia much more passionately than he had done with him, had effected him.

He decided it was best to go asleep, and as he lay in bed he heard the door of the flat shut, and then Sherlock padding towards his door. The door handle shifted. "I don't want to talk about it. Let me sleep, and tomorrow, we will."

Sherlock retreated to his own room, locking the door and lying on the bed, trying to work out what was going on in his head and his body. He had a solution, the only thing he could think of, and he closed his eyes as he readied himself to take the plunge.

The next morning, he frowned as he made breakfast for John, pointedly not taking his antidepressant. His behaviour was odd this morning, going from frowning to smiling to frowning again within seconds. He didn't speak, watching John eat, as if he was ashamed of himself. He himself ate nothing, and sat in silence for a solid hour, continuing to change from what looked like being wrapped in a blissful memory to shame at that memory.

"John," he said as John settled to watch telly. "I…I've made a mistake. I…need your advice. As a friend. As someone who may have been in this situation." He leaned forward and took a deep breath, swallowing his pride and explaining. "I've had romantic encounters with man and a woman. I have had sexual encounters with a man and a woman. The man is the same, yourself, obviously, but not the woman." He seemed upset, nearly as upset as he'd been the morning after the experience with the Hound. "I am not going to reveal the identity of the woman with whom I have had sexual relations—it's not my place. Suffice it to say I regret the fact that I elicited her last night, although it wrapped up my experiment into sexuality and romance for good. I am extremely disquieted by the fact that the antidepressant produced the desire for sex or romance. It isn't me, it's not who or what I am. I am not certain what to do beyond stop taking it and I have no idea what to do in an emotional context." He seemed lost, almost defeated, as he sat with his body language more closed off than John was used to seeing.

"You're the one who wanted to experiment, so compare results." John sipped his coffee, not making eye contact with Sherlock at all. "Did you feel any romantic attraction whilst you were having sex with her?" He bit into his toast, still making sure he didn't look at him. Sherlock frowned, thinking. "You see, when we had sex, it was out of impulse, not suggestion. Impulses usually indicate romantic attraction." Sherlock put his hands together, in his thinking pose.

"Yes. It was an impulse to invite her. I…" He shifted uncomfortably, and he took out his phone to text last night's guest.

_Repeat of last night unlikely. Medicated desire is not comfortable.  
>SH<em>

He looked up at John. "I enjoyed it more, I think. But that could have been the medication. Suffice it to say I shall be switching as soon as possible."

_Apologies for the bites. And scratches.  
>SH<em>

He set his phone down, and hugged John unexpectedly. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. I'm not right. But I came closer to loving you than her—with her, it was a question of intellectual rivalhood fuelling physical passion. With you, it's a bond of trust." He brushed John's lips. "The tail end of the medication is still in me, and…I…I want your presence. I don't want romance or sex, it's not who I am. But…" He took a deep breath and tried to share John's chair. "I need you close to me. Physically and emotionally. I'm sorry." His phone chimed, and a response text from someone called Eagle lit up the screen.

_Don't apologise. It was everything I wanted and nothing I expected.  
>x<em>

"None of it is me. None of it is right for me." He put the phone down. "I deserve to focus on you, even if we're no longer courting, I've hurt you, and I'll do whatever you want, within legal limits, unless they're idiotic laws, in which case I'll be happy to ignore them." He smirked as he leaned into John. "Consider it an extended apology."

"Forget it." John sighed, and pulled away as quickly as he could. "Whoever she is clearly had more of an effect on you than our four year relationship." He finished his coffee and his toast before he stormed into the bathroom into the shower.

When he came out, he made it quite clear that he wasn't in the mood to talk to Sherlock. He got changed and then sat in front of the TV, changing whatever channel Sherlock had been watching.

Hamish was sitting in John's chair when he returned, and Sherlock was in his own, watching Hamish. "At least you don't get sad when I have other friends…" It was Liam, and when he noticed John, he ran and hugged him. "Please don't be mad, he was confused and mixed up and I love you." He held John's hands tightly. "I figured out how to explain it." He gestured as he spoke. "Avery loves you with his privates and his head but mostly his privates. Sherlock loves you with his head and with his soul but mostly his head. I love you with my head and my soul but mostly my soul. Avery sometimes loves you with his heart and Sherlock tries, but we all love you very very much." He put John's hand to his heart and let him feel it beating. "You're the only person he's tried to give it to." He was starting to cry. "Please don't be angry. We all love you very much." Liam smiled with a sniffle and sat John down in his chair, once again kissing his eyelids.

He handed John a leftover brownie and a glass of milk and sat across from him. "I love you a lot a lot and whenever you're not here, I'm sad, even if it's just to go to the toilet." Louis jumped into Liam's lap and he stroked him. The cat curled up, purring deeply. "And when you're sad, I'm sadder because it's like the sun goes behind the clouds and it gets dark in my soul." He stared at John, watching him eat the brownie reluctantly. "Your wings get droopy and the feathers start falling out."

"Half of the time I don't know what you mean." John sighed. "But I know you mean well. I love you all, but I don't think I can stay any longer." John finished his brownie. "I'm miserable. I haven't been happy in, over three months? Sherlock doesn't love me, and never will, no matter what you and Avery say, I know the truth." He swigged his milk before setting down the glass. Liam started crying loudly. "Stop that. You know I won't go away completely. I just, I don't know. I'm unhappy. I'm not needed, you three can cope on your own."

"I…I don't want you to go, not ever…and of course we need you, don't be silly. Without you…Avery will do bad things and Sherlock might hurt himself and I will probably get sick from too much ice cream." Liam covered John with himself, half-hugging, half-holding him still. "I guess I shouldn't be selfish because your wings are all ragged and sort of dirty and you might be able to heal them if you stay away for a while, to go on holiday or something." He nuzzled John's neck. "And I mean you have wings, really, you do, angel wings. I can see them when I haven't had my medicine." He whispered. "You're the only person with wings. Ever. I can't touch them but I can see them and they are very pretty even when they're dirty and sort of sad like now." He stayed silent and hugging John for quite some time. "I don't want to let you go, John. But I don't want to be mean and make you trapped either. If you want, I will go live with My so he can take care of me when you're on holiday. But not today and not tomorrow. Sherlock says he wants to go have fun with you tonight."

"He had enough fun last night." John snapped. "He doesn't need me, at all. And neither do you. Avery already proved he didn't when he screwed a rentboy." He stood up and stormed off to his room. Half of him was wondering why he was so angry, and the other way far too mad to care.

Liam was sat by the door when he'd calmed down and decided to come out. He was asleep, with one hand on Hamish, and the other on the door handle. John picked him up and carried him into his own bedroom, before leaving a note saying he was going for a walk.

"Mrs Hudson, watch Liam for me please? I need to go shopping." He smiled, before walking out.

Liam woke up a few moments later and began looking for John. Not finding him in his room, Liam sleepily started going through the rest of the house, even going so far as to look underneath the sofa. "I can't find John," he muttered. "Where's John, where's my angel-lion, where is he?" He flung books everywhere, looking for any hint as to where John was, losing his grip on logic as he looked for John in the refrigerator and behind bookshelves. He obviously didn't find him, and collapsed, pulling Hamish close.

"He's just gone out for shopping, dear, he'll be back soon." Mrs. Hudson put her hand on his shoulder awkwardly as he sat on the floor, clutching Hamish for dear life as the living room was in a mess.

"That's what he said when the Monsters got him…" Liam started to cry again, and curled into a ball. "He said he wanted to go away and now he has and he's gone from me forever and I'll never be happy again because I won't have my John…" He dissolved into ugly sobbing, terrified that John had left him, claiming he'd just gone for a walk when in reality, he was gone for good.

"…I'll make you some tea, would you like that?" Mrs. Hudson put the kettle on regardless, and started preparations.

"I want John." He started rocking back and forth, head buried in his robe, and when Mrs. Hudson tried to hand him his tea, he lashed out and knocked it from her hands. "_I want John!_" It was a panicked scream, followed by whimpering. "Sorry, I think Avery woke up for a second, I'm sorry, Mrs. H, I just really miss John and I don't know why he's angry with me…" Liam fiddled with Hamish's ear. "Please come home…"

John stumbled through the door a few hours later, giggling to himself. He knocked on the door of the flat, before trying to push his key in the lock. "Oops, wrong key." He whispered to himself before Liam opened the door looking flustered. "Sorryyyyy." John smirked, before falling over onto the floor.  
>"You said shopping. If you wanted to go the pub you should have said!" Mrs Hudson tutted from downstairs. "Get yourselves to bed."<p>

Liam helped John up before he hugged him. "Sooo who am I talking to now?" John slurred, swinging his arms over Liams shoulders. "Because I sort of need to speak to Avery right now, becaussse, I do."

Liam frowned and kissed John's eyelids. "Okay, I will try to wake him up. I love you." He froze before kissing John's neck passionately, Avery. "You shouldn't have gotten drunk, at least not without me. That's what Sherlock wanted to do tonight. He wanted to bash his brains out with alcohol with you by his side, you dumbass." He sighed and put his hands on John's hips, pressing himself near. "He may have liked that woman, but I just want you." He placed John in the bed, sliding his trousers off, but making sure to leave John's underwear while he discarded his own, just in case John didn't want what Avery did. "I know you wanted to talk, but—" He interrupted himself by kissing John passionately, laying on top of him, and John felt Avery's penis harden as it was against his own, a thin layer of John's underwear the only thing between them.

"There's whiskey in the cupboard." John gasped. Avery frowned, before nodding, walking out of the room fully naked to go and get it. "You can't exactly shag me while you're the only sober one, can you?" John shouted across the flat. Avery ran back, bottle in hand, laughing. He covered John's mouth until he'd stopped shouting and smiled, warmly. "Who was she?" John questioned when Avery had started drinking. He stopped, swallowed and looked down at him with a frown. "I know you know. I doubt it was Natalia or Molly. I didn't know he knew any other women."

Avery dropped the bottle from his mouth, a horribly messy sip dribbling down his chin. "He knows lots of other women. Only one of them apparently good enough to fuck. _The_ Woman. And she didn't leave before blood was drawn and a few good bites out of her neck." He threw his head back and laughed, taking a huge swig and wincing. "It doesn't take me much to get drunk, thanks to Grandpa Wilfred." He smirked and swooped in for a sloppy kiss which turned into a full blanketing session. "Not that I need it for you to be damn hot." He took another swig, pressing himself in again, grabbing John's arm with his free hand and snogging vigorously before sitting up again and taking another swig. "You gonna ditch the pants or not?"

"She's dead." John frowned, grabbing for the bottle himself, taking a huge gulp. "Did Mycroft lie to me about it?" Avery shrugged and kissed John, trying to take his mind off it. John decided to give in, the guilty part of him being drowned out completely by the alcohol. Avery pulled off his underwear excitedly, almost causing him to headbutt John. He giggled and bit John's neck, lightly, causing him to groan loudly. Avery had to cover his mouth, so Mrs Hudson wouldn't hear them from downstairs.

Avery licked down John's chest, finding himself shuddering with pleasure as this time, their intercourse was under his control. He alternated between focussing on John and getting more drunk, and it happened quickly, his grandfather's alcoholic DNA filtering down, making him more susceptible to drunkenness. He started hiccupping, which turned into giggling, punctuating the moaning and the heavy breathing. "You taste like buttercream," Avery slurred, taking another sip. He'd already had more than half the bottle, and his coordination was clearly suffering. "Much better than what he wanted to see us do." He smirked with another hiccup and stroked John's hip with his fingers, gently brushing him, knowing that tender touch was better than a firm grip.

John took the last swig from the bottle before setting it down on the floor. Avery looked at John with a grin, before he slipped his hand down to his crotch. John wasn't fully aware of what was going on, all he knew was that he was at a high point of pleasure, until Avery brought him back into reality with a swift slap across the face. "Why did you do that?" John slurred, grabbing onto his shoulders. Avery shrugged, and mentioned something about wanting John present while they shagged. John nodded, and leaned up to kiss him, messily.

Avery returned the kiss, just as sloppily, and giggled as he waited for John's release, continuing to stimulate as best he could. "Y'have no 'dea how much I love you," Avery grinned. He stared straight ahead suddenly, visibly blank-faced, possibly transitioning, and then let out a loud, pleasured moan, louder and longer than he'd ever let out before falling flat on top of John, completely unconscious and drooling.

"Oh." John frowned, and slowly pulled away from under him. He decided it was best to put him in the recovery position, in case he vomited, and deal with his own erection in the morning. He fell asleep in a matter of seconds, blissfully.

When he woke up, Avery was naked, with his head out of the window, smoking. He didn't notice John waking up. Johns head felt like it had been hit repeatedly with a brick. "Uhh. Headache. Need Asprin or Paracetamol."

Avery grunted in reply and stamped out his cigarette. "Only got up to smoke," he muttered before flopping back into bed and throwing his pillow over his head. "Can control it with the drinking, let both out, wake them up when I want. Felt the climax, made sure of it." He rolled over, away from the window. "Where do I go for a substitute head?"

John's phone chimed loudly—too loudly given both of their hangovers and Sherlock/Avery's mild sensory overload. "Feel sick," Avery moaned, and rolled out of bed to head to the toilet, preparing for the vomit that didn't come. John looked at his phone.

_Don't encourage his drinking. He has an obsessive, addictive personality. He does not need to add anything else to his list of addictions and we have a family precedent for alcoholism.  
>Mycroft<em>

Avery came out of the bathroom, very pale. "Not coming up." He fell back into the bed and half-hid under the covers. "Might have to—ugh, ignore me." He made a glorping sound. "Water," he ordered, wanting to speak as little as possible, the hangover bordering on sensory overload. "World is too much. Overloading. With the pills, worse. Better than hallucinating." He took a shuddering breath inward, shrinking from his own voice. "Pills."

"I'm going to leave you here for an hour so your senses can get back to normal. If you're not better we'll go to Jenkins." John kissed him on the forehead, locked the window and closed the door behind him.

A quick clean up of the flat was in order, so John occupied himself with that before calling Lestrade. "He's having a mild sensory overload at the moment, he should be better within the next few hours. Yes, I'll get him into work."

By the time John had got back from the shops, arms full of shopping, Avery was fixing his top in the mirror. "Oh, hello. You alright? Lestrade needs you today. I'll go and put the shopping away and then we'll go."

"He needs Sherlock," Avery corrected with a sneer. He looked at John's armful. "You're a doctor, you should know better than to carry weight with your ribs broken." He took one of the bags with his good hand and lifted it to the counter before grabbing John's. "Thank you for last night." He kissed John's cheek. "I love you," he whispered before John felt his fingers tremble. He grinned brightly and kissed John's eyelids. It was Liam. "I love you, John Watson! And I'm going to tell you that every time I wake up because I mean it forever." He giggled as he laced his fingers with John's. "But it's supposed to be Sherlock today because he needs to work because if he doesn't, he will feel sad and pointless so it's his turn." He shivered again and smiled gently. "Whatever happened while I was out left me with a definite endorphin rush. I feel fantastic." He noticed he was holding John's hand and pulled it out. "Not quite that fantastic." Sherlock took the groceries from the bags and began putting the food away, starting with the milk. "Plans for today?"

"Lestrade wants you to go in." John sat down, still refusing to look at Sherlock. "I won't be coming with you." Sherlock frowned and stopped putting away the groceries. "I have my reasons. I'm glad you feel good, anyway. I'm, uh, going to watch TV." John paced over to the living room and sat down, clearly still angry with Sherlock.

He put Jeremy Kyle on the television, and tried to block out the sound of Sherlocks reasoning. "I don't want to talk to you." John snapped, still not looking at him. "And what left you feeling good is sex. Sort of sex. I don't know. Me and Avery were drunk."

Sherlock decided to let the grammatical error slide. "Explains the headache," he muttered. "If you wish to be left alone for today, I'll respect that wish. You have my number if you need me." He wasn't cross, just confused, and felt it better not to worry about emotional troubles at the present. He slid his wallet into his pocket and headed out the door.

"All the victims were from the same hospital group. You said there was no connection." Sherlock twitched his nose at Lestrade, irritated at the oversight.

"Yeah, but they didn't have the same doctor or anything." Lestrade shrugged. Sherlock paced back and forth, poring over the files and photographs, sure there was something he was missing. "Even the cafeteria staff swaps out."

"Killer obviously a surgeon or ex-surgeon, likely transplant surgeon. Narrow it down. I can't do all your work for you." He picked up the folder, stuffing it into his coat. He made a stop at Bart's on his way home, for no reason other than to talk to Molly, and she caught him staring at an open autopsy file on her desk.

"Oh, did you want to see that?" She handed it to him. "Charles Hussey. He was a psychiatrist."

"I know."

Molly bit her lip, those two words telling her every thing she needed to know. "…oh. Well, he wasn't in a lot of pain for very long, if that's any consolation."

Sherlock closed his eyes. It wasn't. "I'm here to ask a personal question. A relationship question. Not sure who else to ask." She half-spilled her coffee in surprise.

"I'm not really sure I'm the best person—"

"You know people, how they feel, not just how they work." Sherlock stared at her. "John and I are no longer in a relationship. You yourself observed my behaviour on my medication and how atypical it was for me. I merely wanted to solve the question of my sexuality, which I have, by kissing him and then a woman I've known for some time. He grew…jealous. Ended up leaving the room. After that, I…elicited someone. A woman. For sex. I regret having ever done so, though I needed to find out about myself." He sighed. "Now John's cross with me, despite it having been nothing more than an experiment. It had as much emotional bearing on me as running a chemical test, and yet he's upset?"

Molly looked at him. He seemed genuinely confused, not to mention oddly considerate of John's feelings. "I'm not John," she said quietly. "All I can think of is to talk with him. Let him know all of this."

"I have. He hasn't heard it." Sherlock fidgeted.

"Well, you could bring him flowers or chocolates or…something." Molly smiled. "That usually works for me, when I'm upset."

"Flowers indicate a desire for continued romantic engagement." Suddenly he stood and left Bart's, heading home.

"…okay."

He opened the door, threw the case file onto the coffee table and went to the kitchen, flinging open the web browser on his phone and throwing ingredients together in a mad frenzy. John was in his room, the door locked, and Sherlock smiled as he lit a solitary candle in the middle of the table, placing his fine pasta dish on either side of it and pouring a glass of white wine for John and a water for himself. He lowered the blinds to make the room as dim as possible before starting the stereo playing light Chopin melodies as atmosphere. He knocked on John's door. "John. Please come downstairs."

"Why?" John groaned. "Do you really want to be around me when I'm in a bad mood?" He heard Sherlock laughing softly outside of the door. "Fine." He unlocked the door with an unimpressed look on his face. "What?" Sherlock turned and walked away, so John followed him.

When they got into the living room, the lights were dimmed and there was music playing. John frowned. "What's this?" He tried fighting a smile, knowing exactly what was going on.

"An apology," Sherlock said. He sat and invited John to join him. "I'm hardly the best of people to consider a friend, and trust me when I say that no one has ever…believed in me like you have." He cut into the chicken and bit it while he thought carefully about his next words. "Your attraction to me is something I never would have anticipated for a multitude of reasons, not least of which being that I can never reciprocate it. Not without chemical aid, and to be attracted artificially is worse than being not attracted at all—it's a lie." He swallowed. "You…you've had faith in me when no one else has. Not even myself. Anyone else would have left at the first sign of Avery, but you didn't. And I've treated you unfairly. All of me has. I'm sorry." He looked up at John and there was an eerie emptiness in his eyes. "If you wish to leave, I understand. I can tell you're drifting, losing interest, you friendship waning as everything ethereal does. I don't blame you—I've been cruel, I've misused you, not to mention what Avery has done, and probably Liam as well. But accept this apology, and know that even if it's the last night we have, as friends, a part of me will always be inside you." He looked deep at John as if into his very heart, and in that moment, for John, the world vanished and everything was Sherlock's silver eyes and his deep velvet voice. "I've given you my soul." Sherlock sounded very small, very childlike, but not in Liam's way, in the way he did when very obviously lonely. "Do with it what you will. It cannot be taken back once given and…I've chosen to give it to you."

John stayed quiet and sipped his wine. Sherlock looked down at the table, almost as if he was defeated. "I feel like I'm not needed here." He said, finally, after a minute or so of silence had passed. "You never have needed me, you just _think_ you do. You have Mycroft, Zapharia and Mrs Hudson. Hell, you even have Molly." Sherlock sighed. "I'm not losing interest in you, though. I could never do that. My affection for you will never fade, no matter what you do. I just feel unneeded, unwanted and useless here. I'll feel like that no matter where I go, I suppose." He ate half of his meal before speaking again. "I feel upset at the fact you enjoyed something more than the night you lost your virginity, though. I thought I might have meant more than whoever this one night stand was. Well, I know who it was. But that also means you've been lying to me, too. I'm just hurt."

"How did—Avery," Sherlock realized. _He's gone and betrayed me now._ "I…I can assure you that it was sexuality augmented by the drugs, and I'm not taking it any more, it's wrong to feel anything like that at all, for me. I'm not apologizing to her for being with you, I'm apologizing to you for being with her." He was silent as he pecked at his food, excellent though it was, before stamping down his fist. "Damn it, John! Why can't you get it through your head just how much I need you? I lied because it would save your life, would save her life! When you showed up, I was hours away from living on the streets. Again. When—when I was alone, I got so lonely that only one thing cured it, and it was a hell of a fight to stay clean, one which I lost for a few days. I binged. I overdosed. I woke up in a hospital in Portugal." He was raging, furious with John for not understanding. "The only reason I'm still here at all is _you_. And you seem so lost, so empty, and there's nothing I can do to help, watching you be miserable because I know I'm bringing you down, and that absolutely guts me! It might be better for everyone concerned if—" He stood up, throwing his napkin at his food. "Excuse me," he said and closed himself in his room, before sobbing into his pillow as quietly as possible, shaking, fighting the irrational emotional impulse that John—not to mention the entire world—would be better off without him.

John frowned at the table, wondering why he had to ruin everything. He finished his meal alone, drank the remainder of his glass, and started thinking about finishing the bottle. Instead, he knocked on Sherlocks door. "Sherlock. Can I come in please?" Sherlock didn't reply, instead all John could hear was sniveling from inside. "Please? I didn't mean to upset you, I just wanted you to know how I feel." Sherlock got up and unlocked the door, slowly. "Please, I'm sorry. You made such an effort and I didn't mean to ruin it, it's gladly appreciated."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, eyes almost deadened. "I'm useless now. I can't love, I can't work, I can't think, I feel like…like…" He cut off, frowning, trying to keep himself under control. "You haven't upset me. I've upset me. Reason has upset me." He lowered his head, almost entirely leaning on John for support. "If you hadn't come into my life, if you hadn't had to watch me disintegrate, if you'd married Jeanette or Sarah or whatever her name was with the nose or freckles, you'd be happy. I'm the problem. I'm dragging you down with me. I'm troubled and it's making you miserable. The danger of friendship." Sherlock's long fingers dug into John's shirt rather desperately. "Part of me thinks that severing that tie, that the drowning man sacrificing himself so the other can live, that emotional amputation, that you'd be better off without me, that the world would be better off without me, that the best thing to do on everyone's part would be to—ngh." He was cut off by emotion, trying his hardest not to sob and falling further against John in an almost complete collapse. "Father was right about me. Failure. Hopeless intermittent drug addict with no steady job, no social skills, a walking, ticking time bomb, and fewer friends than I can count on one hand." He dug in further, voice shaking far more than he wanted it to, betraying just how miserable he felt. "You can't leave me alone right now, not for an instant. I don't want to live, and I'm finding it very hard to find reasons to need to."

"I won't leave. I can see how low you're feeling." John put his arm around Sherlock. "Your dad wasn't right about you, Sherlock. You're more brilliant than you believe." He took Sherlock over to the bed and made sure he was comfortable. "I'm staying. I clearly can't leave, and I don't really want to. The fact that you think I'd settle for a boring, predictable and tepid relationship over someone as brilliant as you has baffled me." Sherlock sniffed and put his head on Johns lap. "You have reasons to live, and you know how much the world would suffer without you. When you came back after you'd faked your own death, everything was a mess. I could never go through that again."

"Part of me thinks you're saying the words you think I need to hear, rather than what you actually feel." Sherlock sighed and curled slightly. "As for my part, I feel wretched. As if the sun of this morning has not just gone behind clouds, but I'm in a hurricane, all happiness gone, and the swirling anxieties and agonies are going to blow me away. Don't leave me alone, John." He put his head down and fell into almost a trance, staring ahead, trying not to think about anything as John stroked his hair.

He sat up after about three hours. "Sherlock's been sad," Liam noted. "I know what will help!" He stood and opened his box of crayons and wrote on paper from the printer in large and brightly coloured letters. _You are brilliant,_ one note read. _You are amazing. You are wonderful. You are the cleverest man ever. You are beautiful. You are loved. I love you. John loves you. My loves you. Molly loves you. Mrs. Hudson loves you. Avery loves you. Zap loves you._ He finished, drawing happy faces and flowers on all the notes, and took the tape to put them on all the things Sherlock looked at most—his violin case, his computer, the medicine cabinet, his case files. "This way, when he sees them, he remembers. You should write some too." Liam looked at John and tilted his head. "You're still sad, too. Don't be sad." Liam wrapped his arm around John and began to sing. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey, you'll never know, dear, how much I love you, please don't take my sunshine away."

John smiled warmly before he picked up all the pieces of paper off the floor. He taped them up to the wall so Sherlock would see them when he was back.

Liam made Sherlock some brownies, with help from John. After this, they watched some old cartoons, ones that John had checked out beforehand so they wouldn't trigger him. Liam seemed much happier than Sherlock, in fact, he seemed the happiest he'd ever been. John sorted out Sherlocks latest case files in order.

By the time Sherlock came back into dominance, he seemed to be in a slightly better frame of mind. "Look in your room." John smiled, gesturing to the door. Sherlock frowned, and paced over.

He opened the door cautiously, opened it up and saw the pieces of paper taped to the walls. He closed his eyes and smiled, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Thank you." He took John's hand. "Thank you both." He sighed deeply. "I'm fortunate. I have someone to remind me life is worth living after all." He reached in and brushed John's lips with his own. "I…it's not love. It's deeper. Or maybe it is love, I'm not sure. I…you…symbiosis. More than an emotional bond, it's one that keeps us both alive." He seemed exhausted. "Thank you. For everything you've ever done for me." He smiled weakly. "I don't want to talk right now. I just need touch. An embrace. To…cuddle." He changed into his pyjamas and lay on his bed, and when John had joined him, he lay next to him, on his side, breathing into John's neck, one arm over John's chest and the other between them. "Healer," he muttered, taking a deep comfort in John's body heat, taking in deep breaths of his natural perfume for a few minutes before shifting to listen to John's heart. Liam curled up on Sherlock's other side while Avery watched, smiling tenderly—Sherlock hadn't taken any of his medication all day. And for once, Sherlock was perfectly content with John on one side, Liam on the other, both keeping him warm as Louis warmed his feet. "Love," he muttered into John's chest, half-asleep before starting to snore gently. "You," he said five minutes after the snoring began, still asleep, and smiling softly.


	14. Jack

The next week was a peaceful one. The most exciting thing that happened was the Jubilee, at which Avery complained, Sherlock dismissed, and Liam dressed in full patriotic garb, waving a flag out of the window and flushing with national pride. "She was pretty when she first was queen," Liam said, looking at a coronation photo of Her Majesty on the television. "But she looks a little bit bored. I wonder if she is bored a lot. My will probably know. He knows everyone important."

Since then, Sherlock had worked on his case, Avery had done a full painting despite the broken hand and the fact he was still taking copious amounts of vicodin, Liam had baked almost every day, and they all seemed genuinely happy. This morning was no different, as Liam woke John by kissing his eyelids gently. "You were silly last night," Liam said as John opened his eyes. "You went into the kitchen and ate one of Mrs. Hudson's pies and then I asked for one and you started singing Pop Goes the Weasel and said something about a jack-in-the-box and then you squeezed me sort of hard and didn't say you loved me but I think you just fell back asleep. Silly sleepwalking John!" Liam kissed John's forehead and put his ear to John's chest, laying his splinted hand over John.

John frowned. He hadn't sleep walked since, well, ever. "I don't sleepwalk." Liam sighed and nuzzled into his neck. "We should do something today." As he said that, his phone buzzed. "Excuse me." John reached over to his phone to read a text.

_Got a case. Need Sherlock immediately, or at least A.s.a.p. Wouldn't ask if it wasn't urgent. Thanks._

_-GL_

John hummed. "Theres an urgent case for Sherlock apparently. Like, very urgent. I'm not sure of the details…" Liam sighed. "I'm sorry Liam. We'll go to the park later? Or maybe somewhere else? We just need to go and pick up case files and probably see a crime scene, you know how it works." He kissed him on the top of the head and ruffled his hair.

Liam frowned. "But he already has a case…I guess he can do both. He's really clever so he probably can. But I want to go see a musical when we're done! I think there was one called _Wicked_ that sounded interesting." He bit his lip. "But if Greg asked nicely, it would be rude to not go." He stared vacantly for a moment before standing up straighter, Sherlock again. "I'm assuming he's at the station or he would have specified," he said half-bitterly. He reached under the splint and scratched his arm gently, wincing ever so slightly as he did. He shaved and dressed, barelling out of the door and hailing a cab.

Upon arriving at the scene, Sherlock quickly noted the basicness of it—man took six shots to the chest, police officer standing in shock as a blood stain on the pavement told of a third person present. "Obvious. Man being attacked, officer opened fire. What more is there to tell?" Lestrade sighed as Sherlock made his way to the officer in question, quite badly shaken up, but otherwise fine. "You opened fire."

"Yes. He, um. He was cracking open that poor woman's head, like he was—oh, God, like he was going for her brain. I told him to get away, and then he was coming at me, like a zombie or something, I warned him but he kept coming, so I shot him."

"And?"

"And he kept coming. It was like he was already dead or something, he just kept coming at me, I didn't know what else to do."

"So you emptied your gun into—" Sherlock straightened up and turned to look at the body. "Multiple gunshots and no apparent effect." He looked at John meaningfully, a look of _Sound familiar?_ all over his face.

"I'm sorry, it's _impossible." _John almost shouted, frowning at Sherlock. "Don't be stupid! This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." Sherlock gave him the look that meant _for the love of god, John, shut up._ He did, and allowed Sherlock to carry on.

"He was wild. His eyes were wild. There was nothing human about it, Mr Holmes, you have to believe me." The officer who had shot the man was panicking, breathing heavily.  
>"Just, calm down mate. I'm a doctor. Come on. Over here." He took the man over to a corner to calm him while Sherlock looked at the bodies.<p>

The body was still warm, almost feverish, and he'd been dead for some time already. It was clear the death was not from the impact of the bullets but rather from blood loss. "Hm." _If someone took him to hospital after the second or third, he would likely have survived. Just like…_ He smelled the body, finding no alcohol on the breath of the deceased. The head wound was a bullet straight through the brain, possibly immediately between hemispheres, leaving a minimum of injury. "Need a _full_ toxicological analysis, provided there's enough blood left in the body. Need to know what took him so long to die. I've heard of something like this before and I need to find the explanation. Could save lives." He stooped down again, looking for any clue as to what may have sent the man into a fevered invulnerability. Drugs seemed most likely, experimental compounds from either the pharmacy or the street giving him superhuman strength.

He loitered, taking in every bit of information on the scene as John treated the officer for shock. He heard the phrase_ like a zombie film_ tossed around and he sniffed incredulously. _There has to be a rational explanation. Nothing is inexplicable, only unexplained._ "Send all photographs and autopsy reports to my address. Text me the condition of the woman still in hospital every fifteen minutes, and if she dies, I want to know exactly when and exactly from what injuries and the strength it took to inflict them. Nothing more for me to do here." John could see a hint of glee in Sherlock's eyes, not just because this was a near-impossible case, but because there was something going on in his head, something being figured out, something he long gave up on trying to work out finally being resolved.

The body was still warm, almost feverish, and he'd been dead for some time already. It was clear the death was not from the impact of the bullets but rather from blood loss. "Hm." _If someone took him to hospital after the second or third, he would likely have survived. Just like…_ He smelled the body, finding no alcohol on the breath of the deceased. The head wound was a bullet straight through the brain, possibly immediately between hemispheres, leaving a minimum of injury. "Need a _full_ toxicological analysis, provided there's enough blood left in the body. Need to know what took him so long to die. I've heard of something like this before and I need to find the explanation. Could save lives." He stooped down again, looking for any clue as to what may have sent the man into a fevered invulnerability. Drugs seemed most likely, experimental compounds from either the pharmacy or the street giving him superhuman strength.

He loitered, taking in every bit of information on the scene as John treated the officer for shock. He heard the phrase_ like a zombie film_ tossed around and he sniffed incredulously. _There has to be a rational explanation. Nothing is inexplicable, only unexplained._ "Send all photographs and autopsy reports to my address. Text me the condition of the woman still in hospital every fifteen minutes, and if she dies, I want to know exactly when and exactly from what injuries and the strength it took to inflict them. Nothing more for me to do here." John could see a hint of glee in Sherlock's eyes, not just because this was a near-impossible case, but because there was something going on in his head, something being figured out, something he long gave up on trying to work out finally being resolved.

John followed Sherlock quietly. "It's impossible. Completely mad. You know it's not possible, even _I _know it isn't. I thought Moriarty was the only person who could afford something that… extreme?" Sherlock sighed at him, before hailing them a cab. "Right. Lets go to lunch." John smiled, trying to change the subject. "I won't even force you to eat."

They arrived at Angelos restaurant, for the first time in months. "Boys! Such a pleasure! What's been keeping you?"

"You know," said Sherlock. "Working." Angelo winked at him and sat them at their now-traditional table. Sherlock instantly put his menu aside, preferring thought to food. He twisted his napkin in an unusual show of excitement. "Just because Moriarty is the only one with the money and resources doesn't mean he can't pay someone or pick them up." He smiled. "This might just have been his attempt to get my attention." He bounced his leg, thinking, almost hyperactive. He did take a glass of water at John's insistence, but aside from that, he was silent for most of the non-meal, watching John eat his pasta, growing more and more pale through the evening. Just as John was on the verge of asking if he was okay, Sherlock took his pill separator from his pocket and downed his medication, hands shaking slightly, and shut his eyes. "Should have taken them an hour and a half ago. Pain was getting to me."

"You alright?" He reached his hand over the table and squeezed his hand. "I worry about you, all the time." John admitted. Sherlock nodded, and slowly pulled his hand away, clearly somewhat uncomfortable with the physical contact today.

"Lets go home." John suggested, leaving money on the table without telling Angelo they were leaving. Sherlock raised his eyebrow before leaving before John. "We might as well walk home. We should. It's a nice night."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "If you like." He walked down the street in relative silence for a few minutes. "You don't need to worry right now. I'm fine. I just need the vicodin for my hand, need the psychiatric meds for everything else. Haven't needed the antidepressant, which we still need to talk to Jenkins about." He raised an eyebrow dismissively. "And I've still been thinking about Moriarty, about how whatever that man took could be the answer we were looking for as to how he survived." He bit his lip. "And us. I didn't want our relationship to end like that. I…apologize. It was one of the least tactful ways it could have happened. You deserved better." He'd stopped walking as he apologized, but now he was moving again, focusing on work. "Two cases at once, apparently unrelated. A coma patient-mutilator and a man who wouldn't die. Quite nice to have two at once. Keeps things interesting." He smirked as he opened the door, half-springing up the steps. "Ah, the file has arrived." He pinned all the photos to the mirror, the other wall covered in information on the other case, and stood still in the middle of the room, hands outstretched and perfectly still.

_Left hand: coma patients. Killer likely female, likely surgeon or ex-surgeon (possible student, unlikely given the skill). Rudimentary knowledge of police well within the scope of the general public's sphere of knowledge, not enough to successfully evade forensic traces. Motive as yet unknown._

_Right hand: man who wouldn't die. Probable chemical substance enhancing strength. Possible Moriarty connection—either test subject or "volunteer" (possible forced participation, likely given Moriarty's history). Motive as yet unknown, suspect toying with me._

He smiled. He was having actual fun, setting his mind on two simultaneous tasks, and barely noticed he was humming one of Avery's compositions as he stood with eyes shut and brain working.

John decided he'd occupy himself elsewhere while Sherlock was working. He cleaned up the flat around him, making sure he didn't move any case notes. Sherlock had started playing again, looking out of the window smiling to himself.

When he'd stopped, it was about three in the morning. John had fell asleep in his chair, the one that faced where Sherlock usually played. He was having a peaceful dream, for once, one where he and Sherlock were lying in the field in France.  
>"Didn't think I'd leave my best boys, did you?" A voice breathed in his ear. John looked up, and saw Moriarty, who had been sitting behind them the whole time. "Ohhh so sentimental. Boring!" John went to wake Sherlock who had fallen asleep next to him. "Don't bother, Jackyboy. He's asleep."<br>"Hang on, you don't even know my name and you've raped me multiple times."  
>"You're so slow, aren't you? Hm. It takes one word, darling." Moriarty leaned over to kiss John, causing him to wake up in a cold sweat, screaming.<p>

In the shock of hearing John scream suddenly, Liam forced his way forward and embraced John, crying. "Don't scream, don't scream, don't ever ever scream," he wailed, holding John tightly and not letting go for a long time, crying softly as he tried to protect John from his nightmare, placing John's head to his own heart. "Listen to my heart please. It's a good sound, a happy sound, please listen. Shhhh," he said, rocking John until John had to admit he felt a little bit silly. But he couldn't get up with Liam on top of him, fallen into a stressed sleep, tense from hearing John's terror, but feeling relatively safe being in his arms. John nudged him gently, trying to wake him as he was losing circulation in his legs, and he opened his eyes slowly. "Funny how that always happens," Sherlock muttered. "You under stress triggers Liam, the one least likely to take physical action against real danger." His unbroken hand was under Avery's control and stroked his face. "That's a very peculiar sensation as well, having my own limbs under one of the others' command." He stood up, feeling awkward, and swayed on his feet before falling to his knees, catching himself with his good hand. "Ungh. When did I last eat? Don't remember."

"I'll make you something to eat." John jumped to his feet and went into the kitchen. "I'll make you pasta?" Avery nodded and sat on the couch.

When John had made him pasta (a large bowl full), Avery ate it all and swigged it down with a glass of Liams smoothie. "Better?" He nodded and licked his lips, before lighting up a cigarette.

John trailed off to bed, not feeling his best. Avery didn't join him for some time, as he was painting again. He felt very strange as he curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling. Something in himself had changed, he could feel it.

Avery hummed as he painted, but jumped sharply at a thunder-crack. He hadn't noticed the storms approach and promptly set his stuff down, hands starting to shake. He took a few deep breaths before putting his brush in a cup of water and placing the palette in the sink. He took a sedative pill, feeling that tonight would not be a good night for him at all, and lay in the bed next to John. He could sense that something might be up with John, as he was in an unusual position and his breathing was sharper. "You alright?" Avery got no answer and reached to grab John's hand. "John, I'm here for you, whatever's going on, you can tell me." He reached in and softly whispered into John's ear. "You can trust me. With everything. If you don't want the others to know, I'll block them out, I won't let them listen." John pulled away slightly. "John," Avery said with unusual earnest, almost vulnerability. "What's the matter?"

"Something isn't right." John whispered, pained. "Moriarty, he must have done something." Avery pulled him to his chest and tried to calm him. "Something isn't right. I can't sleep properly, and when I do I have nightmares. I don't know whats happening to me. Make it stop." Avery kissed his forehead and started to hum.

Instantly, he sat up and pushed Avery down onto the bed, a wild look in his eyes. "Why am I here?"

Avery lay, rather confused at the sudden change from half-terrified to determined confusion. He'd managed to turn his body language cold and distant without moving too much. "Because I saved your life repeatedly. Because I want you here, with me. Because I'd be dead if it weren't for you, several times over, probably." He looked into John's eyes, desperately concerned. "Because I love you." He cautiously stroked John's face with his hand. "Do you want one of my pills, the ones that fight the nightmares?"

"I don't need to fight nightmares. I need to know why I am here. Last thing I remember is sitting in Jim Moriartys hospital base. Why am I here?" Avery frowned, trying to work out what was happening. "Explain what is happening, and I won't get violent." He, obviously had no explanation. He punched him full on in the face, sending Avery flying to the floor.

Avery didn't move for a few moments. "Nothing since Mycroft rescued you?" He was still frozen, not knowing what the hell was happening. He looked up at John and saw in his eyes a look he knew too well to be the look in his own during his moments of black panic. He felt sick. "John…please. This…this isn't funny. Stop." John replied by grabbing him by the shirt and shaking him, strangled roaring coming from his throat. "John, stop, please. I don't know what's happening, I really don't, but if this is some kind of a joke, I'll—" His head was hit to the floor as John demanded an explanation again and again. Avery reached out his hand in self-defense, scrambling for John's throat as his vision twinkled. He wasn't going to kill him, or even knock him out, just weaken him to the point he'd let go. "John, lis—" He'd found John's throat just as he was hit on the floor again. He registered Louis looking at them from under the bed, terrified, and Avery squeezed tightly until John fell to the floor, barely conscious. "What the blazing fuck is going on?" Avery was borderline hysterical and would probably have been worse had he not taken his sedative earlier in the evening. He held his arms out, distancing himself, taking a boxing stance as John recovered enough to stand again. "I do not want to hurt you, but, by God, I'm not going to sit by and let you do what the fuck you want to me. This is not acceptable. I will be the first to accept the irony in that, but you do not want to piss off a guy whose first instinct when assaulted is to slit the attacker's throat." John took a step forward and Avery recoiled. "Don't you touch me. You might be having a psychotic break of some sort, I don't fucking know, but don't you come within arm's reach of me."

"Stop calling me John." He snapped, feeling a burning rage suddenly overpowering him. "That's not my fucking name." Avery frowned, and tapped his foot. "Jack. My name is Jack, learn it. And the fact that you think you _could_ injure me? John, yes. Not me, though. You wouldn't even have time to pull out a blade." Avery looked at him, licking his lips in mild confusion and half arousal. "Now. Explain to me everything that has happened since the hospital base. It's of utmost importance that I know every detail." He sat down on the bed, as calmly as he could. "Sit. Explain. Then I'll leave you alone."

_Fuck_. Avery found himself shaking, desperately glad the other minds were quiet for now, knowing that the instant they figured out what was going on, panic would set in. "Um. Mycroft rescued John," he said, intentionally making a distinction between John and whatever sat beside him. "Mycroft sent me to the hospital they took John to, they checked you—John over, pumped his stomach, sent us home, and Sherlock…experimented. He was aroused from the antidepressants and snogged both John and Natalia before shagging Irene Adler, who by the way, was never dead. He realized he preferred her but thinks it's probably just the meds and hates himself for doing it." He was finding it hard to keep a level voice. Half of him wanted to hug John, or rather Jack, the other half wanted to tie him up. "Liam's seeing John with wings when we haven't had the anti-hallucinatory, he can bake, and somehow sees us as brownie a la mode but with Neapolitan ice cream." He stared as Jack absorbed the information. "We love John in our own way. Liam tried to explain it. I think Sherlock got it, finally. We watched the Jubilee with Liam dressing up in damn Union Flag clothing, I've started a new painting, might have gotten readdicted to opiates from the vicodin, and Sherlock's got another case. Man was shot six times and died from blood loss instead of gunshot wounds, even to the head. Sherlock thinks that's how Moriarty survived somehow." He shifted away. "And then you turned up and I don't fucking know what the fuck to do because you've said yourself, you're not John." His tone was as icy as it was when he addressed his victims, as dangerous as possible. He was well aware that Jack probably possessed all of John's military knowledge and probably could, in fact, kill him before he could do anything about it, but if worse came to worse, Avery knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill John in self-defense. "Was that a good enough summary for you?"

"It didn't include what I needed, but I suppose that can't possibly be helped." He smiled, one different from Johns; one more sinister and twisted. "I apologise for punching you. I was thrown off my guard." He sighed, a large heaving one, before looking out of the window. "I don't suppose you have any cigarettes?" Avery nodded quietly and passed him one, along with a lighter. "So, you're willing to kill your lover to get to me? Hardly seems… _ethical._" He took a drag from the cigarette with a smile, before opening to window to let the smoke out. "It's very odd, this… whatever it is. I remember the whole of John's life, except for the few weeks I asked for details on. _Strange._" He sat on the window ledge, his hanging outside. "I don't understand the whole attraction to Sherlock though. He's quite clearly never going to care. However, _you…_ Well, you're obsessed with him, aren't you? In fact, you're fantasizing about him right now." Avery didn't respond with anything but a small snarl. "Oh, the things John Watson hasn't shared. You'd be surprised. He really _has _had bad days."

Avery, too, took a cigarette. "I fucking well would kill you both if you cause as much pain to him as my existence does to Sherlock. I'm hardly an ethical man, but you may have missed that." He was angry, mostly at Moriarty, so angry that he was fighting tears of rage. "And you damn well better hope I'm fantasizing about him right now, because it's the only thing reminding me that there's something still in that body I care about." He waved his hand. "Besides the obvious physical attributes." He was fighting every instinct he had to provoke Jack, aware that caution was the best strategy right now. He lost the fight and got into Jack's face, inches away, blowing smoke into his face and fighting the urge to use his eyes for ash trays. "Get the fuck out of his head." Jack sneered, reminding Avery that once, a few months ago, something very similar was said to him. "Fine. Whatever. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go lose myself in some fucking chemical. Probably morphine or some shit like that." He turned away and stormed down the steps to the bathroom and barricading the door as he pulled out a jar of morphine and syringe. He dropped his cigarette into the sink to extinguish it and took a deep breath as he stared at the little glass bottle. "So much for only using it to fight sensory overload," he muttered as the needle slid into his skin, lit up by the flashes of lightning. Just enough to zone him into barely-conscious oblivion, not enough to knock him out or hurt him. He needed the euphoria badly, not to mention the sedative effect to keep himself from dismembering Jack then and there. He lay in the empty bathtub as his mind started to float away on the wings of Morpheus.

Jack carried him into his own room, laying him the recovery position before leaving. He decided he'd go for a walk.

When he got near the river, he sat down, lighting up a cigarette that he'd bought from a 24 hour garage. He got a text from Avery, full of keymash and symbols, and he turned his phone off. He tried desperately to piece together the weeks he had missed. He felt strange, detached, unemotional and cold. Though he could remember everything John could remember, he had no feeling towards any of it. Not the Army, or the ex girlfriends, or the fall. Nothing. After about an hour of trying to work things out, he decided to go home.

When he got back to the flat, he checked on Avery, who had fell to the floor. "Silly man. You're not to do that again."

"Mnguh," Avery moaned as Jack put him back on the sofa. He felt vague, knew the others were slightly aware, just as much as he was, really, in that he felt as though he was asleep and just having a nightmare. Louis hissed at Jack before running under the sofa, but Avery heard it distorted and low-pitched. "Jjj," he said, trying to get Jack's attention (or rather John's.) "Wh…st…" He weakly tried to fight back as Jack's hands stretched his face painfully as a form of punishment. He failed and looked at Jack as if desperately searching for meaning from Jack's existence. "Pl…" He blacked out, finally, his blurred mind nothing but a question.

When he awoke two hours later, he was Sherlock, and his head hurt. It had been years since he'd taken morphine for any reason, let alone semi-recreationally, and it was plaguing him as to why that particular drug had been chosen when there was ample cocaine hidden in a secret compartment John had no knowledge of. "John, I don't know why Avery took morphine," he said, voice slightly slurred. "Wasn't sensory overload, feels different. Probably made you cro—" He saw the look on Jack's face. It wasn't a look he liked at all, it was a sort of anger and confusion, tinged with hatred. "What's wrong?" he half-snapped, voice cold, trying his best not to jump to conclusions. "I don't like what I'm reading on you," he said, a horrible explanation for what he saw. A John that was almost not John. "Been taking acting lessons?"

"I'm not John." He snapped. "I'm Jack. Moriarty… _created_ me, I suppose." Sherlock half laughed. "This isn't fucking funny. I don't know _why_ you think it is. I don't know why I'm here, or who the fuck I am. Avery tried to explain, but he had no real explanation. I don't _want_ your pity, though. I'm better than that. Now move out of my way, I need to sleep."

Sherlock stopped laughing once he figured John wasn't faking. Jack was something else, something new. "I didn't say—" He stood as Jack half-shoved him out of the bed and slammed the door behind him. On the one hand, Sherlock knew something was wrong and all his instincts were telling him to leave, but on the other, he wanted to stay and help Jack or John or whatever through what he'd felt six months ago when he'd first discovered Avery. He sat on the sofa, breathing heavily. Louis emerged and gently nudged his hand, nervously. "Not sure what's happening, Louis," he sighed, rubbing Louis's chin. "I don't want to let him to his own devices, but at the same time, I have to protect myself. And you, obviously." He went to his own room and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, very unpleasant thoughts plaguing him. _What if Jack is a killer like Avery? Would I turn him in? Yes. Probably. No. He's not turned Avery in. John hasn't. Jack is not John. Doctor John, soldier Jack. Two halves, two versions. Two aspects._ He jumped as Louis followed him into bed, and pet him, finding it comforting. "You're not going to mentally split, will you?" Louis crawled under the bedsheets, trying to hide from Jack as well. Sherlock couldn't sleep, and stared at the ceiling, attempting to fight his racing thoughts, to be rational instead of sensational, but the later the night got, the worse his thoughts got. _What if it's a permanent switch? What if John is gone forever? What if I've lost him? What if he treats me as an object, a slave, a piece of property? I have to leave. _ He stood and threw on some of Liam's clothing as they were easiest before collapsing onto the floor with a dry sob. _What if John's still in there and my leaving breaks him? _ "I don't know what to do," he whispered.

"Deal with the situation. You always seem to. Or maybe that's John? Haha. Ooh, sorry. I may hit a nerve." Sherlock groaned as he tried to pull himself up. "Here." Jack picked him up and put him on the bed. "Fucking eat, will you? You're like skin and bone. How does Avery think he'll be able to hold me off? Pathetic." He got in the bed himself, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his jacket. "Go to sleep. You need it. I don't want you dying on me. I need your help."

Jack dropped off to sleep pretty quickly, his walk had helped him to unwind. In his dreams, he imagined running from the police, with Averys hand in his own. "We have to keep out of sight, they'll know about all the murders you've committed. Don't you understand, Avery? I thought you were fucking smart. Keep. Your. Head. Down." Avery nodded, white in the face, shaking, before crouching down. Jack popped his head around the corner, looking back to the crime scene. Sherlock, Liam and Lestrade were there. Liam was crying, over what seemed to be a body, Sherlock went faint and suddenly collapsed, and Lestrade stood with a very grave expression on his face.  
>"Look, Liam. You need to go with the nice lady to the ambulance now. She'll give you a shock blanket." Liam was dragged off the body, taken along to the ambulance with Sherlock, revealing who it was underneath. John. John was in a white doctors coat. His throat had been slit, and there was blood everywhere.<br>"You killed him." Avery whispered, his eyes rolling. "You killed.. My John. Why would you do that?"  
>"He needed to be dealt with, Avery. You know he did. He was a danger to us being caught. I'm sorry you have lost your lover, but it needed to be done."<br>"I'll kill you." Avery whispered again, tears rolling down his cheeks. Jack had not expected to see this reaction.

When Jack woke up, Sherlock was at the window, looking out. Or at least, it seemed to be Sherlock. He had half expected to be John when he woke up. "Fuck. Can your brother get hold of Jim?"

Sherlock glared. He hadn't slept in the hopes that John would return in the middle of the night, and half in fear; he didn't yet know Jack's moral limits so it was better to assume they were somewhere around Avery's—nonexistent. "I'm sure he could, but why bother him? Moriarty's texted you plenty of times in the night." He tossed John's phone at Jack reluctantly and angrily, not wanting this not-John to touch John's things.

_IT'S ALIVE, IT'S ALIVE!  
>JM<em>

_Having fun yet?  
>JM<em>

_You're going to have a blast, I can tell you that. I've given you Sherlock Holmes to play with!  
>JM<em>

_Aww, how sweet, you're sleeping.  
>JM<em>

_Calling out Avery's name, too.  
>JM<em>

_Call when you wake up.  
>JM<em>

_Pop goes the weasel!  
>JM<em>

_tHJis is gniona bea Reelk gdoo tkime!  
>JjM<em>

Sherlock watched as Jack read the messages, thoughts still racing, borderline panicking, trying to figure out how to bring John back to the surface, but nothing was working. He realized that, as it was now morning, he should probably take his medicines, even though all he wanted to do was barricade himself in his own bedroom and sleep. He started to storm off to the door and froze mid-step before turning around and blinking innocently. Liam crawled into the bed with Jack and held him tightly, clearly afraid. "I had a nightmare," he said, tears dripping onto Jack's torso. "I dreamed you had an Avery inside you but he came out and he was hurting me and he was called Jack, which I think means I've been watching too much Pirates of the Caribbean because that would make him Captain Jack, or Doctor Jack, but I think he would have liked Captain Jack better." His hand closed around Jack's shirt fabric, holding him tightly. "Sherlock is sad at me. I can feel how he feels and he is sad, very sad, and I don't want him to be sad. I think it was the nightmare. But I know that would never happen because we love each other too much, and anyway you're much stronger than me and wouldn't let an Avery into your head." He sniffed. "You smell like Avery, though, I asked you please not to smoke and you know I can tell when you do, but I'm not going to be mad at you because I'm so scared from the nightmare and I need you to keep me safe." He put his head on Jack's shoulder. "I love you, John, I love my lion-angel protector. I know you won't let anything happen to me." He fell asleep within seconds, and even started drooling on Jack.

"For fucks sake." He sighed, putting Liam on the bed. "Why does he even deal with this?" Liam snored and pulled the covers over him.

Jack decided to watch TV. The news reports were the same as usual, murder, fire, theft. "Oh, yawn." A voice came from behind him.  
>"What?" he turned round to see Sebastian, sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette.<br>"You're so much more interesting than John… Oh, yum."  
>"Leave. I don't know what you two have done to me. Leave, now."<br>"Boss wanted me to call round, see how you're doing. Possibly invite you over for a night." Jack growled.  
>"No. Not happening. Leave me alone… <em>he<em> is asleep right now. I need to stay."

Moran laughed quietly. "So's mine," he grinned. "A little too heavy on the painkillers tonight. So I got bored and here I am." He slid a business card into Jack's pocket. "This way, you'll have a bossless line straight to me," he said, licking his lips.

The door clicked open and Liam staggered sleepily out before locking his eyes on Moran and starting to hyperventilate. "Get away from my John!" He ran at Moran and started hitting him in the chest quite hard, but with poor strategy, just blind panic, and Moran easily overpowered him, knocking him to the ground, shoving his arms behind his back and sitting on his rear end, bringing traumatised memories back to the surface and straining his still-healing hand. Liam screamed and broke down into tears, paralysed by the memories long enough for Moran to stand up, wink at Jack playfully, mime _call me_, and leave. "John?" Liam called weakly from the floor, his mind in total darkness, shaking helplessly. "John? My? Someone please help." Getting no reply other than the roll of the eyes from Jack that he couldn't see, his visual processing shot in the nightmare that he'd been triggered into, he kept calling out as he lay on the living room rug. "Please, John, help me. Help me. Please. Help."

"Get the fuck off him, now. It's not funny. You can leave now." He shoved Moran off before pulling Liam up. He nodded towards the door and Moran left.

"It's not John, it's Jack." Liam frowned and rubbed his eyes. "Moriarty made me. Now, go and play, or something." He gestured to his room before turning away, going to smoke. Liam groaned when Jack lit up. "Shut up. I don't know who I am or why I exist. I'm allowed to have a few cigarettes. Mind your own damn business, alright?"

Liam's lip trembled as he stared, eyes welling up. "No, my nightmare was a nightmare, not real, please, John, this is not happy, I don't like this." He reached over to hug Jack, who shoved him off, knocking him to the floor. Liam lay sobbing loudly for a few minutes while Jack smoked, rolling his eyes at him and calling him pathetic. Louis poked his head out from under the sofa, but when he saw Jack, he hissed and hid again.

Liam continued to sob for a good half hour, lying in the foetal position in the middle of the living room floor before stopping mid-gasp and sitting up. He took a few deep breaths, Sherlock, before coming over to Jack. "I'm going to try. To help. I've more or less been through this, remember?" He wiped Liam's tears away and sat in his chair. "Or rather, Avery has. But I'll do my best. Emotional detachment might help figure this out. I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted, burying his face in his hands. He looked up sharply. "You say you have no idea the reason you exist. Hardly unusual, as most people wander about aimlessly. The fact it's troubling you is interesting, though." He folded his hands, watching closely. He raised one finger for a moment before unburying the camera. "It might help to see yourself. I know it helped me when I observed Avery and Liam." He set it up on the tripod and began recording, regardless of permission. "Let's begin with your name. Jack. Did you choose it or did you feel it belonged to you? Do you feel comfortable with your surname, unlike Avery? Do you prefer the title of doctor or captain?" To be perfectly honest, Sherlock was fascinated by how a similar phenomenon could be happening in a mind that was so different, and wanted to learn every difference he could.

"Jack seemed comfortable. Doesn't sound as soft as _John._ I prefer the term captain." He stood up and went into his own room.

When he came out again, he was wearing his military uniform. "I might wear things like this, from now on. They seem more comfortable for me. Where are my dog tags?" Sherlock slowly took them off his neck before handing them back to him. "Time to work out. Johns let this body go. It's a right mess."

Sherlock frowned. "Liam likes it. Thinks it makes y—makes John cuddly." He felt himself closing off, and he wanted something to lose himself in, something that wasn't drugs but still made him feel good. He stood and took his violin to the other end of the room, staring out, placing his composing equipment beside him, rosining the bow, and trying to drown out the grunting of Jack working out, every sense screaming at him to leave, even logic. Not to mention the voices.

_He's just going to hurt you,_ whispered Avery. _You know it. Leave. Save yourself._

_(That's a knife!)_

_Please, where's John, if John's gone, maybe we should stay with My?_

_(For God's sake, show some mercy!)_

The violin in his head whirled faster and faster, more and more discordant, and he, in turn, started to play what his mind was playing as his thoughts raced faster and faster.

_And if he doesn't hurt you, he's still not John._

_(I was just following orders.)_

_Make John come back._

_(P—please, Sh—sherlock!)_

_He hasn't shown a sign of coming back yet, not at all, not a whisper, not a chance._

_(Who are you?)_

_He said the Monsters made him…_

_(I was just following orders.)_

_He's what John never was. He's cruel, abusive, violent, and manipulative._

"Not unlike yourself."

_His wings are gone…_

Sherlock was hyperventilating, almost blacked out, the powerful auditory hallucinations starting to overwhelm him, and the bow-strings were starting to fray. Inevitably, he half-threw it down and staggered to the kitchen, throwing open the drawers. "Pills. Where are they, where have they gone, did he take them, where are they? Need." He kept opening the drawers, flinging open cabinets, digging in the science and case files for his medicine and not finding it. He stormed past Jack, who was ignoring his panic, and started throwing out the cushions on the sofa and his own chair, thinking perhaps the pill-separator or the bottles had fallen down inside them, but he still couldn't find them. His thoughts were racing faster and faster, the violin in his head growing even more frantic, the voices of Avery's victims shifting faster and faster, dissolving into their final gurgled screams overlapping like the waves on the beach, and he fell to his knees, putting his hands to his ears. "Stop. Shh. Stop." He shut his eyes tightly.

_He's not coming to help you. He's gone._

"Try under my bed. They rolled off my cabinet when I pulled out the ol' uniform." Sherlock frantically ran into his room as Jack spoke, in pursuit of the medication/. After a while, Sherlock didn't sound like he was moving about, but he didn't really care. He started working out, seeing how many push ups he could do.

50 push ups later, he felt exhausted. "God damn." He sighed.  
>"Sherlock?" he called, only half interested. "You alright? As I said, I don't want you dying on me." No reply. He pulled himself up and padded into his room. He wasn't there. "Sherlock, where are you?" He heard a sniff from under the bed. He cautiously looked under. Sherlock was asleep with Louis underneath the bed. "Right.." Jack sighed, took off his uniform, and got into bed.<p>

The voices persisted into Sherlock's dreams, taunting him. He was in a village in the Middle Ages, dressed as a baron, deep red silks and velvets at every turn, Avery's victims as peasants, threatening him with the stereotypical torches and pitchforks. But their heads flopped about, severed. He tried to reason with them, but they were out for revenge, out for blood.

"Vampire, monster, demon," they kept screaming. He opened his mouth to speak, but felt his own teeth, fanged—he was a vampire, and he tried to run from himself. He made it back to his castle, his mind palace, and ran to the throne room, not sure of what to do. Avery sat on the throne, irreverently, one leg slung over the armrest and lounging into the corner. Liam sat in front of him, playing with wooden toys.

"Get up," Sherlock barked. Avery's clothes, while also baronesque, full of velvets and silks, was also adorned with leather trim. Avery rolled his eyes but got out of the chair anyway. Liam was clad in light velvets, whites and beiges and greens, and stopped playing to look at vampire-Sherlock.

"What's wrong?" Liam frowned, and approached Sherlock, who'd pulled himself into the throne as tightly as possible, trying to figure out what to do.

"My choir's coming to burn the palace down," Avery said, half-spitting and half-smirking. He carried a sword, unlike the others, simple and powerful.

"Oh, well, Sir John will keep them from getting in." Liam was confident. "He always does, him and the Duke of My."

Sherlock looked up hollowly just as the doors burst open, the angry peasants storming in and stabbing him with wooden stakes, stabbing Avery with pitchforks, lighting Liam on fire. John/Jack stood a few feet away, just watching as they died. "Wh..?"

"I just can't be arsed," Jack said.

Sherlock woke up, frantically flailing, first checking his chest to make sure it had been a dream, and then crawling out from under the bed. He saw Jack asleep and fled the room, half-tumbling down the stairs as he went to his own room, still unable to find his medication, still pursued by the voices that now were starting to take visual shapes. "Get away," Sherlock ordered as he had to fight his way through the wall of them. "Let me—get away!"

Jack woke up and rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock, why are you shouting?" He got up and casually strolled over to him in his underwear. "Get up you stupid fuck. We'll find your meds." He picked him up and slung him over his shoulder.

He put him on the sofa and went to look for the pills John had hidden for emergencies. "Take these." He shoved them in his mouth. "Get yourself some water, and shut up. You'll be fine."

He went into his bedroom to work out again, ignoring Sherlock for most of the day.

After a few annoyed minutes, Jack took Sherlock to his own bedroom and flopped him into bed. But in Sherlock's mind, it wasn't Jack, it was Avery's victims, heads lolling, blood oozing down their fronts, whispering threateningly, promising he'd get the punishment he deserved. Instead of a bed made of fabric and springs, he was put on a bed of hot coals, and he didn't have the strength to get up, the heat etching into his back and buttocks, and the pain slowly increasing from heat to searing agony. He grunted and writhed, unable to do anything about it, and the grunts turned into shouts, which turned into half-screams of pain. Each of the murder victims stood over him, taunting him.

_I had a family._

_I didn't know what I was getting into._

_I'm going to miss Patricia's birthday._

_You didn't even try to stop him._

_Coward._

_Killer._

_Lunatic._

_Evil._

_Madman._

Then, quite unexpectedly, he felt a cool hand on his face. Opening his eyes, he saw John, smiling gently and warmly. And now Sherlock knew why Liam saw him as an angel—he was glowing a brilliant golden-white, with feathered wings, easily a ten-foot wingspan. Part of Sherlock was reminding him that John was a hallucination, that there was no way any of it were real, but it didn't matter. He was seeing John again.

_Shh, Sherlock, I'm here_. The hallucination slid into bed, placing one of his wings between Sherlock and the coals. The wings were cool, not like you'd expect feathers to be, and he used his other to place on top of Sherlock to protect him from Avery's angry victims and also to use as a blanket. Angel-John lightly kissed Sherlock's nose. _You're safe now._ Sherlock could feel his burn wounds healing from the wing's supernatural touch, the wings themselves smelling like Christmas morning—pine needles and warm candles and pastries and happiness.

"You're _beautiful_," he whispered, locking hands with his hallucination. A tear of wonder slid down his face and John smiled wider and wrapped one arm around Sherlock. He started humming, something Sherlock had never heard before. It was like a swimming pool on a hot day, wrapping him in cool, peaceful serenity and he found himself humming along in harmony, humming himself to sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, he was still wrapped in John's wings, and everything else was gone, soothed away by the pill and by his angel's presence. "Good morning. You're still here."

_Don't be obvious, I know you hate that. _ Angel-John kissed Sherlock's nose and pulled away slightly. _You should shower. I love you._

"Thank you for staying, even if you're not in your body." He sat up and went to the bathroom to shower. Angel-John stayed with him, holding him gently and fending off any evils Sherlock's barely-medicated mind was creating. When he got out, Angel-John handed him his clothing and he went into the living room completely naked, under the impression he was fully clothed, somewhere along the way, turning to Avery and locking hands with Angel-John, completely ignoring Jack in favour of the glowing hallucination. He even passionately kissed the John that wasn't there, as if pointing out to Jack he'd rather have something he knew wasn't technically there than to have John's body without his soul.

**Avery's blog: **

he's left his body, Jack pushed him out, but John's still here, still with me. glowing, with wings. beautiful, so, so beautiful. and he's so vivid, so real, and I can touch him and hold him and stroke him and do everything as normal, and he's fine, he's happy, he's the way he should be, the way he was before Moriarty got to him.

I love you, so, so much, and you don't even need your body for me to love you.

I love your _angelic soul_.

"I'm not even going to ask." Jack laughed to himself as he walked out of his room. "You're a strange one. Care to enlighten me?" Avery looked up, and suddenly stopped what he was doing, dropping his arms to his lap. "Ruined your moment?" Jack smirked and flopped into the chair next to the couch. Avery was staring at him, eyes wide. "What are you staring at?" Jack buttoned up his uniform- which he had started wearing the past few days. Jack sighed when he got no answer, and went into the kitchen to make himself something to eat. Avery went back to kissing thin air while he cooked himself some soup. "Right. You, erm, enjoy yourself, yeah?"

"Oh, God, he's in the uniform." Avery felt himself growing significantly aroused, and he turned to Angel-John, looking for guidance. "You know I have a thing for that, I have a damn strong thing for that."

_It's up to you, you know. I'm not happy about it, but I gave you a chance, remember?_

"And I waited months for you to give it to me." Avery stroked the hallucination's face, and kissed him again. "I love you, John, you and Sherlock, more than anything, I don't want to betray you." He held Angel-John tightly. "Would you forgive me?"

_Maybe. You know how I felt about Sherlock and Irene._ Angel-John sighed and played with Avery's hair.

"Then I won't do it. I don't want to hurt you." Avery smiled and squirmed, trying to ignore his arousal. "I love you too much to risk it." He smirked. "But I miss your body."

_You just had me a few nights ago!_ Angel-John laughed openly. He seemed far happier than the real John, as happy as he'd been before Moriarty had gotten to him, the way Sherlock tried to see him, tried to remember him. Avery smiled, too.

"I know. But you were drunk, and I was drunk, and I much prefer it when the both of us are sober." He wrapped one arm around Angel-John's waist, squeezing him tightly. "I can't wait until you're back. When you get back in your body, expect a hell of a homecoming shag." He only looked up when he noticed his stomach rumbling at the smell of the soup. "Starving. But I want to stay here, wrapped in your wings." He wrapped the wing around him, pulling him tighter, warmer and yet cooler, safer, as if Angel-John's wings would keep him safe from anything Jack wanted to do to him.

"You mumble far too much." Jack came back in after a while. Avery looked up, licking his lips. "Do you have any cigarettes? I'm all out." Avery nodded, pulling a packet out of the drawer and passing one to Jack. Jack fiddled with his lighter for a bit before sighing. "Light? It's ran out." Avery gulped and nodded, flicking his own lighter open, waiting for Jack to bed down to light off it.

"So, Avery. You're not speaking much. Something wrong?" Jack had sat in the chair again, watching Avery almost as closely as Sherlock watched John when he was deducing. He took a drag of his cigarette before blowing out the smoke, slowly, knowing his presence was having _some _effect on Avery. "Are you going to speak?"

"Obviously." Avery, too, lit up, figuring he may as well. "Half of me wants to fuck you, half of me wants to kill you." He blew his smoke through his nose. "You're strong. You don't scare easily. You're working out. You're wearing the uniform. You don't take shit from anyone, especially not Liam, and you have a delicious ruthless streak." He squeezed Angel-John's hand for comfort. "You're everything I've ever wanted except for one little detail." He stared coldly. "You're not John. You're not the man I lust after. You lack his tenderness. His happiness. If he worked out, if he stood up to Moran, if he was more than willing to kill a man for me, if he was the same man I met that day in Bart's instead of the man he's become recently, the grizzled war veteran instead of someone ripped open and bleeding, I might even consider something so stupid as marriage." He took a drag, watching Jack closely. He was silent for the next few minutes.

_Did…you mean that?_ Avery turned to look at Angel-John's shocked face.

"Of course I meant it. Wouldn't say it otherwise, you know that." He looked back to Jack. "As for killing you, you've stolen him from me. I don't know if he's aware in there or not, or even if he is in there at all anymore, or if you've completely destroyed him and my angel is all I'll have left, but you've taken him from me. I once took an oath to protect him, to protect Sherlock, and if there's no possible chance of John coming back, I'll kill you before you can hurt Sherlock, I'll kill you for hurting John. I remember what went on in Sherlock's head when he first realized that I existed, how suicide was on his list of viable options to be rid of me, and I swear to you that if I even hear one shred that he's in that much pain, I'll slit your throat and gladly take the prison time for it." He smoked in silence for a few minutes, trying to calm himself down.

_Shh, you won't have to do that, Avery. I promise. I know how much it would hurt you to do that, and we'll find some other way if it gets to that point. I won't let you have to kill my body._ Angel-John rubbed Avery's head to help calm him, as Avery's overactive imagination was kicking in and forcing visions of that hypothetical murder. "Excuse me," he said and stood, facing out of the window, puffing silently, but staying in the room, hoping Jack would show some sign that John was still inside.

"I'm not doing this on purpose, Avery." Jack muttered as he walked into the room behind him. "In fact, I'd rather not be here. It's emotionless and cold, and I know John was so much warmer that I am." He sighed. Avery turned around slowly. "I need your help. You remember what this was like, don't you? Just existing, not knowing why, remembering what you used to be, but not quite feeling for it." Avery looked at him, a sympathetic look across his face, something that neither Jack or John had ever witnessed. "The only reaction that I could possibly of had was to go into soldier mode. You can't blame me for it. I didn't ask to exist, and John seems to be asleep. He has been since the day I arrived. He's alright though, he'll come back."

"Then we're different." Avery frowned, feeling more relaxed at the fact that John was still somewhere inside of Jack. "I've always known what my purpose was—to protect John and Sherlock and to kill Moriarty and anyone who works for him—and I grew more emotional, not less. You've become more like Sherlock, I've become more like y—John." He finished his cigarette in silence before speaking again. "And before that, before us, it was…Sherlock didn't know what to do with himself for the longest time. You were already in or most of the way through your military training before someone even suggested he become a detective. Even then, he spent the next three years trying to stay clean, trying to work, and only got a few jobs here and there. Made his money as a busker on the Underground in the meantime. Barely kept him alive, had to go to Mycroft twice for enough money for even his scant meal plan." Avery took a deep breath, trying to bury the agony associated with the memory he was about to surface. "And then Victor did what he did and Sherlock half-died from an overdose, trying to keep himself awake and working to figure out what went wrong. It took months before he wanted to try to work again." He hoped neither Sherlock nor John would remember any of this conversation, hoping to keep it as private as possible. "If you got shipped out at the start of the war, you were fighting and healing while Sherlock went through that crisis." Avery smirked darkly. "While your friends were blowing the brains of insurgents and terrorists out, Sherlock's friend was blowing the brains of his family and then himself out." He flashed back to the crime scene, Victor's family dead by Victor's hand which had then turned to himself. He felt ill. No matter what Avery did, that memory would haunt the three of him more than any other crime scene, the _PLEASE, GOD, FORGIVE ME. I NEVER WILL_ written in blood in Victor's writing the most unpleasant thing he'd ever seen surrounded by caution tape and detectives. "I—" He ran to the bathroom and vomited, staring down the toilet for several minutes, Angel-John rubbing his back comfortingly, before returning to the living room, still not aware of his nudity. "I'll do the best I can. I'll listen. Because you're part of him and because I doubt you'll talk to anyone else."

"I'm sorry, I suppose. I don't know how to feel towards Moriarty. I think it's dislike for him and Moran, but because it all happened to John, and not me, I'm not sure." Jack felt soft towards Avery, unlike Sherlock and Liam. "I'm sorry about your friend, Avery. Or rather, Sherlocks friend." Jack wondered what Avery was looking at when he gazed longingly at the space next to him. "It must have been hard for him, and also for you. I know John has lost so many friends, but their deaths don't effect me."

"Probably because you didn't know their killers personally." Avery fell into a long period of silence, Angel-John comforting him by humming again. The doorbell rang, and Jack got up to get it. It was Dr. Jenkins.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. Sherlock around?" Jack said it was Avery (and didn't correct him on his own title; the fewer people who knew, the better at this point), and that yes, he was in. He led him in where Avery sat, and Avery's mood brightened slightly when he saw him.

_You do remember you're supposed to be visiting the hospital for a checkup every week or so, don't you? _ Angel-John shook his head.

"Of course I remember. I just choose not to." Avery smirked.

"Sorry?"

"Wasn't talking to you." Avery stood, and Jenkins did his best not to look at his exposed body, instead focusing on the face. "Here for long enough to have tea?"

"Er…yes." When Avery turned away, Jenkins mouthed to Jack _How long has he been naked? Doesn't he realize he is naked? _ Jack just shrugged and said he didn't think he did. "So. Avery. How have you been?"

"Fine, actually. Well, there was a bit of an incident last night. Voices, racing thoughts, full-sensory hallucinations, but thanks to John, I'm alright now." He returned to the living area while the kettle boiled.

"Describe these hallucinations, if you can." Jenkins was resisting the urge to pass Avery a blanket.

"Thought my bed was a bed of coals and that the people I've killed were torturing me on it. And Sherlock was hearing Liam's and my voice mingled in with the screams." Avery turned to Angel-John and smiled. "But then John came and quieted the demons in my mind."

_You're a little bit sappy right now. It's strange._

"Don't you like it?"

_It's a bit out of character for you._

"I know. But it's the truth. And I'm happy that you haven't left." He reached out and brushed Angel-John's face. "I love you. I'd go insane without you."

Angel-John laughed gently. _I know. I love you too. _ He reached down and kissed Avery. Jenkins coughed awkwardly. "Right. Well, I'm sorry I can't stay for tea. Just wanted to remind you to come in on Thursdays."

"Mm? Oh, right." Avery had been distracted by the kiss and only now turned back to Jenkins. "Put on the kettle for nothing. Oh, well, it's just water." He rose and turned it off.

"Listen, John, if he has an episode like this again, talking to people who aren't there, forgetting to dress himself, you should let me know." Jenkins seemed really very worried, but nodded and left. "See you Thursday!"

Avery came back and half-tenderly brushed Jack's hand for an instant before pulling away, reminding himself of his promise. "What got into him?"

"You're naked." Jack found himself staring. "We could…" He trailed off. "I mean, it's Johns body. I doubt he'd mind. It wouldn't be like the time you fucked the rentboy." He moved closer to him slowly, eyeing his body. Avery shivered, almost as if he was uncomfortable. Jack smiled a half smile before looking him in the eyes, sliding one hand over his shoulder. "What's wrong, Avery? Isn't this what you want? I have the same body as John, I know everything John knows, I'm the captain you wanted him to be, so what's the issue?"

"I…" Avery ran his hand down Jack's semi-exposed torso. "I promised. I…" Due to the fact that he wasn't wearing anything, Avery's erection was very visible and he was starting to find it very hard to ignore Angel-John's staring at him. "Told him I wouldn't. He was pissed at Sherlock for having the Woman, probably still is, he's sure as hell going to be pissed if I fuck you, but…" He groaned. "Fuck. Your abs are hard from working out yesterday. Probably sore. But hard. Ffffuck." His eyes rolled backwards and he groaned again as the dog tags smacked his face. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, John, I just nngf," he said, throwing himself and Jack to the floor, pressing into him. "You, you're, and, oh, you _fucking_ genius. You manipulative bastard genius." He wormed Jack's clothes off him, leaving the dog tags, which Avery started playing with in his mouth, even as his hands moved down to Jack's hips and gently brushed him, grinding his hips to Jack's.

Jack laughed. "I knew you couldn't resist." He nipped at Averys neck, drawing a sigh from him. "Not even Sherlock would resist me, but its you I'm interested in." Avery ran his hands over Jacks body, softly digging his nails into his abs. "You've wanted this since you saw me in my uniform, didn't you?" He giggled to himself, before pulling Avery in for a kiss. The feeling that came over him was akin to what John felt when Sherlock kissed him, but he chose to ignore it. _Sex is sex, not love. _"Bedroom." He growled in his ear, pulling him up and dragging him to Sherlocks room.

"No," Avery growled. "Not my room, that's sacred." He yanked on Jack's hand and half-tore him upstairs to John's room, where Jack had lain out his medal of service and old photographs of Afghanistan in an attempt to force some feelings. "Here." He pressed himself into Jack firmly, insistently. "Besides, your bed is better for this sort of thing." He flung Jack down, covering Jack as much as he could and once again stroking his hips. He picked John's tags up with his tongue, enjoying the taste of the metal and feeling down Jack's hardening ribs with his unbroken fingertips. "Oh, hell, he's gonna be pissed." But that didn't stop Avery. "Command me, Captain Watson," he mumbled. "Order me into battle."

Jack rolled over so he was on top of him. "Rule one, if we're doing this then I'm on top." Avery almost whimpered at this. Jack thrusted his hips forward, into Averys. "Rule two." He reached under the bed for his handcuffs, and locked Avery to the bed frame. "You have to trust me." Avery looked like he wanted to protest, but he stayed almost silent when Jack kissed his neck. "Of course these rules won't apply all the time, soldier. Unless they're needed." Avery groaned and bit his lip. "I know you won't do as your told, so I will have to take action." He reached for the riding crop, and put it across Averys mouth, so he was gagged. "This is your reminder, corporal."

Avery made a pleasured gurgling sound, licking the leather and thrusting upwards, eyes rolling almost feverishly as his whole body shook. Jack came down, and they intermeshed. Suddenly Avery's face changed and he began to squirm as if to get away. It was Sherlock, triggered by the leather, handcuffs, and the fact he was being subjugated, in a situation he didn't want. He was panicking for a few seconds, and Jack still didn't relent. "Guph," he said, trying to tell Jack to stop, but Jack didn't get the message and soon he was in a cold sweat, surrendering to Avery to take charge once more. "Fgn Shrlk," Avery grunted as he stroked Jack with his stomach and groin, trying to work himself up once again; he'd lost it all when Sherlock had surfaced. The crop was pulled from his mouth and it came down hard on Avery's thigh, making him groan in pleasure at the sting and catching him right back up again. "Yes. Have I been disobeying orders, Captain?" His voice was sultry and somehow begging at the same time. "Do I need discipline?"

Jack smirked. "Then you'll be punished, corporal." He pulled away from Avery and turned him over, leaving the handcuffs to dig into his wrists even harder. He struck the whip across his back, leaving a red mark. "What must you do, soldier?" Avery couldn't speak, he was groaning. "You must follow orders, say it." He struck him again, harder this time, drawing blood. Avery whined, half with pleasure, half with pain. "Say it, or the punishment will be much worse next time."

Avery didn't want to tell anyone he wanted to obey orders, he would rather be whipped than to subjugate, and he stayed silent as long as he could, preferring the delicious stinging on his back. To him, being part of an organized group would be the worst thing in the world. Finally, when the welts on his back started to bleed, after half an hour, when his body could take no more, he groaned long and intensely, climaxing and orgasming before collapsing with an "I will obey," and a fit of weak giggles.

"Oh." Jack sighed. "Well that's plain boring. I wanted to fuck you." He kissed Averys cuts softly, with a grin. "I'll dress these tomorrow." Avery smiled. "I don't want you to get infected." He ignored his own erection, unlocked the handcuffs and kissed the cuts on his wrist. "I haven't even had my first shag yet. Boring." He sighed again and lay down next to Avery, looking at him with a small smile. Avery sighed and closed his eyes; he was truly exhausted. A few moments later, he was asleep. Jack kissed him on the forehead.

He remembered all the times Avery had come onto John, and the amount of times he had rejected him. John _did_ love Avery, but more like a best friend. His real love was with Sherlock, and he couldn't bring himself to tell Avery. The feelings he had come to realise were much more than what John felt.

After a long time thinking, he wrapped his arms around him. "I love you." He whispered. It felt normal, right. It never did when he was John.

Avery smiled as his eyes opened slightly. He was just as light a sleeper as Sherlock was, and muttered sleepily. "Sorry I couldn't keep on. This body's new to the whole sex thing still, remember? I think that's only the sixth or seventh time this body's done any of that." He kissed Jack, making sure to do so in a different way from the way he kissed John. Angel-John was watching and frowning. "I'm sorry, John," Avery said. "I didn't want to betray you. I love you, I promise, and if you're cross, I won't do it again."

_It's fine._ Angel-John obviously didn't think it was, he was obviously hurt._ You enjoyed yourself. I'll be happy for you if you get along. Like you and I. I just wish you'd fought a bit harder._

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John. I love you. Forgive me?" He looked up, pleading with Angel-John to forgive him, but Angel-John turned away and left the room. Avery put his head back down on the pillow and rolled away from Jack, sobbing silently.

"He won't be angry. You're just imagining somebody who will be. It's _still_ his body. He'll understand; he did the same with you when he was with Sherlock." He ran his hand across Averys shoulder blades, kissing along them as he did. He didn't want to say the real reason why John wouldn't be mad- because he didn't really love Avery as much as Sherlock. Avery sniffed before turning around, to look at Jack. "Trust me." Jack smiled, looking at Averys face while his head was on his chest. "I'm not going to lie to you." He moved up to his face to kiss him, but Avery turned away. "Oh. Alright then." He stopped touching him and turned on his side, facing away. "You'll learn that I only mean well."

"You're not John. Fuck off." Avery fell silent again, angry primarily at himself for making Angel-John upset enough to leave. He tensed up and rolled over, Sherlock registering a few things: one, he was naked. Two, his back hurt, stinging from the welts, and he was able to register it was from a whip or the riding crop. Three, his wrist was in terrible pain, probably from the earlier handcuffs stressing barely-healed bones. Four, his dick was throbbing, clearly recently used and handled. Five, the person who'd done all of this was in bed with him, just as naked as he was. He scrambled out of bed as quickly as possible. "What did you do to me?" He cradled his injured hand, the flexing of his back reopening the cuts and causing him to wince. Angel-John, who never left Sherlock, put his hand on Sherlock's wrist and the other on his back as if trying and failing to heal the wounds. "What did you _do_! Give me the Vicodin, I need it. No, never mind, just tell me where it is, you stay away from me."

"It was all consensual." Jack sighed. "Here." He threw the Vicodin to him. "Avery wanted it, I apologize if you find it uncomfortable." He stood up, and put on his pants. "I'll clean it and dress it for you, you might get infected." Sherlock tried to walk off, but Jack had pushed him onto the bed before he could move. He pulled the first aid kit out. "Bite this." He passed him some cloth to bite down on. "This will hurt." He used anti-bacterial cream on the cuts before cleaning it off with water. He then used plasters, and bandages on top of them. Jack didn't know much about first aid, and he tried to remember what John had done.

"There." He hovered his hand above Sherlocks back, wondering if he should touch it. "You can um, go and do whatever now." He got into bed, got himself a cigarette and lit up. "Oh, and do me a favour, will you? Don't tell Avery that John doesn't love him. He'll be wondering."

"Why…would John lie?" The fact that John had found himself capable of lying to Avery on that front was making Sherlock start to question John's truthfulness to him. And as for Jack's request, Sherlock couldn't grant it, as Avery was most definitely aware, and Sherlock felt a spike of Avery's anger through him. He closed his eyes, shaking, trying to stay in control, because if he didn't, there could be violence.

_I didn't lie. Not to you. I could never lie to you._ Angel-John was taking Sherlock's hand and smiling softly. Sherlock felt ill from the pain in his back and wrist, not to mention the emotional pain of waking up in the middle of bondage-sex, which was far too much like the first time he was raped for Sherlock's comfort. "Don't do it again, and I highly doubt it was entirely consensual. Coersion isn't consent." He glared at Jack, feeling disconnected, almost separate from the world, and he didn't like the feeling. "I don't feel well, J—" The voices were starting again, screaming, but worst of all was the violin. _Shh, Sherlock, I'm here._ Angel-John put his hands over Sherlock's ears and instantly the hallucinations quieted. Sherlock reached to Angel-John and smiled. "Thank you." He turned back to Jack. "If you so much as come within two feet of me, apparent consent or not, I will—" It wasn't so much a threat of retaliation as it was a concern for a breakdown. "I can't handle this. I have to…to do something." The three Vicodin pills were starting to work, and he felt the vaguest of morphine-like highs kicking in. "To lay down." He stumbled down the stairs, unsure on his feet, and barely remembered to put his trousers on before tumbling into bed, Angel-John wrapping him in his wings to muffle the world, rocking him gently, the world swaying in Sherlock's mind as he drifted into a lucid half-sleep.

Jack must have fallen asleep when he'd stubbed his cigarette out; he felt the sunlight creeping through the window, shining on his eyelids. He pulled himself out of bed to go and check on Sherlock. Through the night, Avery must have taken over because there were tears down his face. He sat next to him, watching him sleep.

He didn't stir for another hour or so, and Jack had made sure he'd left the room by then, not wanting to annoy him. To pass the time, he decided he'd work out and stay out of the way.

Sherlock was standing at the doorway, fully dressed, about three hours later. Jack was well-covered in sweat by now, and Sherlock wasn't there for the view. "I'm leaving," he said. "I can't do this, I can't stay here." Angel-John urged him on with a hand to his shoulder. "You know about my condition—or rather conditions—as well as John does. You know I suffer from, among other things, post-traumatic stress disorder from being tied up, drugged, and raped repeatedly by someone who looked like John but wasn't. It didn't even occur to you yesterday that you might trigger a breakdown in the worst way possible." He frowned and took a deep breath. "You egged him on, Avery, I mean. You taunted him. Manipulated him into having sex with you. Regardless of any mental health issues we have. I can't live with someone like that." He turned to the door in preparation for leaving. "Maybe when John comes back, I'll come back, too, but not while you're you."

"No. You can't leave." Jack went up to him and plunged a syringe he'd been hiding into Sherlocks arm. "Don't worry, it's the same thing Irene used on you, that time. You'll be fine." He caught Sherlock, who passed out in his arms.

He dragged him to his bedroom. He put him in the recovery position. Making sure the windows were locked first, he locked the door behind him.

When he opened his eyes, Liam realized he was frightened. Being frightened, his first instinct was to run to John. He tumbled out of bed, catching himself with his bad hand, and a shock of crisp white pain shot up his arm. He yelped and tried to rise to his feet, but failed, and decided being upright was overrated and right now, he needed John. He crawled out of the door and up the steps to John's room, where Jack was lounging and reading one of Sherlock's self-defense books. Liam managed to stand, only to fall into John's bed, arms scrambling around for Jack in blind panic. Angel-John had been with him the whole time, beside him, watching.

"J'ai fait un cauchemar," Liam slurred as he found Jack's thigh with his hand. "Um, I had a nightmare," he translated, crying and sniffling. "I dreamed the Monsters came back and they got me again and they stole My and Natalia and hurt them with whips and chains and there wasn't anything I could do and they died because I didn't help them because you were hurting me and I hope you won't hurt me…" His face screwed up like a toddler who fell from a swing and he began to sob loudly and grabbed Jack tightly, half-trying to make friends with Jack, half just needing something to hold onto that was alive. Every time he tried to speak, he'd be overwhelmed in a crying and screaming fit right by Jack's ear.

"Liam, calm down, will you? Go and play with Hamish, he's in my room. Just do _something._" Jack carried him to the bed, and then put a film on for him. "It's Jack, by the way." He pulled out the muzzle he'd bought a few days previous, knowing it would come in handy. He put it on Liam. "I don't know where John is, and I'm not sure he'll ever come back. You have to stay here." He checked the window was locked before leaving, locking the door behind him, once more.

_Come and look after your brother, I'm taking you up on the offer of a holiday. Be back in a week._

_-Jack. (It's complicated. I'm sure he'll explain)_

He took the plane tickets Mycroft had given him, which could be used up until a month ahead, and the envelope of money he'd been given. He grabbed his suitcase that he had prepared for a swift getaway and banged down the stairs of the flat, out the front door, and into the street to hail a cab.

Liam struggled, trying to get the muzzle off, and it didn't work. Nothing worked. He tugged at it, but it needed a key—which Jack had. He was panicking, struggling to get free, growing more and more distressed with every passing second.

Jack's text to Mycroft never sent. Moriarty, who'd been watching the whole time, had set up a jamming field specifically to stop anyone from coming to Sherlock's rescue. No one was coming. And to make things worse, with the muzzle on, he couldn't take his medication, couldn't eat, couldn't drink. He started to hallucinate, his clothes dripping with acid, and he ripped them off, Avery in control, and by now the straps had started to chafe on his face. He was blinded by panic and pain, and the only thing keeping him together was Angel-John singing to him, keeping him from having a total breakdown.

Jack arrived in America the next day, early morning. He went through the normal procedures like customs and getting his bags. When he finally got to the hotel to check in, he was worn out.

He decided to send an email to Avery, knowing he may not get it for a few hours unless he was dominant.

_Message to: Avery Holmes_

_RE:—-_

_I feel like I should be somewhat guilty for what I did to Sherlock and Liam, but I'm not. My only worry right now is your safety. I had to sedate Sherlock and muzzle Liam so I knew you would be in safe hands._

_You'll be at your brothers now, in safe hands. I understand you're in a terrible state, and that is my fault. However, Sherlock doesn't understand that you consented to sex, and you would have done it regardless of my sly comment about it being Johns body, too._

_I guess what I really need to explain is why I'm on holiday. I've gone away for a while so I can clear my head, and maybe bring John forward.  
>On the subject of John, I apologize for what I said about him not loving you, it's not completely true. He is sexually and romantically attracted to you, but that does not mean he is in love with you, at least not like he is with Sherlock.<em>

_It's different with me, though. Unlike John I'm not afraid to say how I feel, and how I feel is quite simple. I love you, more than he ever could, or will, even. And don't give me that bullshit about 'if you loved me you wouldn't hurt me', because you've done it to John. You know I'm not lying._

_I'll be back within a week, or hopefully not at all. I hope John comes back in my place, just so you feel more comfortable. Please do not blame him for my actions._

_-Jack. xxx_

He turned the hotel room computer off before climbing into bed, utterly exhausted.

Avery saw the email and sent one back. He was hallucinating badly, so it took a while to process the information in the message.

_TO: Jack Watson_

_nnoyti at mYcrfoft's, cna't levae. youi sadi nolt tol and IK must ol bhey olrfders._

_cna't thikn. anc't dio angtythikg. witghout you. or Joun. youj've abandonnnnnnnned me._

_IO cna'tg et thiks fuickikong thing offg nad it's tdricing me iknsane and ic an't fiknd my pik;lls and CI oucldnt' take htem nayway becauses oif njhe fuckikn muzle_

_adn dnot' use the fukkngki name Holmes, AAveryno Holme's was my fklather, I'm just aAVery._

_nhurruy back._

He clicked send and almost instantly collapsed onto the computer, exhausted. Avery stood a few minutes later and staggered to his room, where he lay on his bed, trying to fight the nightmare images he was seeing and hearing.

Mycroft rang the bell three days later, concerned for his brother's health. There had been a mysterious communications knockout as Jack had left, but sources told him that John Watson was seen boarding a flight to New York, and he'd been alone. Sherlock hadn't answered his phone or email, and Mycroft was growing seriously worried. He'd heard that something was not entirely right with John, and the thought occurred to him last night that perhaps John had snapped entirely and had killed Sherlock. He rushed over as soon as possible.

"Sherlock? Liam? Avery?" Mycroft wasn't sure whose name to call, but he got no answer. Louis ran downstairs to Mrs. Hudson, to the open food dish outside her door that she kept in case Louis visited. Mycroft had half-tripped over the terrified cat, and slowly made his way into the living room, dreading what he was going to find.

It was clear that Louis had free reign in the kitchen—the refrigerator was standing open and there were empty packages of lunchmeat strewn about the floor. Clearly Louis was a very clever and very desperate cat. The litter boxes hadn't been changed in nearly a week, not since Jack had made his first appearance. So where was Sherlock? Mycroft's heart sank. Now he was overthinking. What if Sherlock had overdosed and John, unable to bear the pain, had left the country? What if Sherlock had killed himself? What if John had murdered Sherlock in a psychotic rage?

He opened the door to Sherlock's room and heard a rattling from the closet. He slid open the door to find Sherlock shaking, naked, the chafe-marks from the muzzle-straps on his face bright red, his eyes glazed with shock, body curled tightly into a ball. He'd been there for some time. Mycroft took Avery's kill-knife from the bedside table, and made to cut the muzzle off, but Sherlock saw the knife advancing toward him and screamed through his nose, flailing in panic. "No, Sherlock, I'm here to help, it's me, it's Mycroft." Sherlock continued to fight back, and Mycroft had to click the knife shut to keep from injuring his brother. Eventually, he gave up and wrapped a blanket around the unbathed and rather filthy Holmes, humming to him gently. "Sherlock, I don't have a key. I'm going to have to cut this with the knife. Do you understand?" Sherlock's eyes rolled and he nodded weakly. "Good," Mycroft said and once again opened the knife. Sherlock tensed, but stayed put. Mycroft slid the blade between Sherlock's head and the smallest point of the strap and sawed back and forth. It took work, but eventually, the straps were cut through. Sherlock was severely dehydrated, lips cracked and bleeding, and Mycroft frowned. "I'm going to get you some water."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft as tightly as he could, which wasn't that tightly, but it was desperately, and croaked out a reply. "No. Stay. Don't leave me."

"Sherlock, you need water."

"No!" Clearly it was more important to Sherlock to have company than water, something other than Angel-John. Mycroft sighed sadly, and lifted his far-too-thin brother, wrapped tightly in the blanket, and took him downstairs.

"I'm going to take you home, Sherlock. I'll look after you there." He loaded him into the car, and only a block from Baker Street, Sherlock passed out from dehydration and exhaustion, sliding over sideways slightly with a groan.

**Mycroft's blog:**

Three days ago, John Watson left 221B Baker Street and got on a flight to New York. My brother was not with him.

Fearing the worst, today I went to the aforementioned address and found him. He's still alive, though if I had waited any longer, he may not have been. I found him muzzled and naked, probably hallucinating, and definitely traumatised. There were mostly-healed wounds on his back, inflicted by the riding crop, and he didn't want to be left alone.

I've brought him home rather than a hospital. Moriarty is less likely to come after him here, and Rachel will be able to tend to him as well as any other physician—I have the utmost faith in her abilities. (Rachel is my female partner and a top trauma doctor.) He may have to be given IV fluids for now, and he'll certainly need to be bathed. I am fairly certain, given his reaction, that he has been unmedicated for the past few days and consider it a miracle that he did not self-medicate with either cocaine or morphine, as he is wont to do on occasion.

But I am worried. The only person who could have done this to him is John. Avery and Sherlock have told me that he has not been acting like himself of late, and I am worried that he, too, has had some sort of psychotic break and taken it out on my brother. I will contact him once Sherlock is situated in his new/old home.

Jack wasn't sure how long he'd been in America, as the days quickly turned into nights when he was trying to bring John forward. He'd been to see many specialists, paying with the money that was suddenly transferred to his account by who he assumed was Mycroft.

_Whatever you did can be recalled. I am begging you, as a man who has done you no wrong, a man who didn't ask to be brought into this world, please, just take it back._

_-Jack._

He sent the text to Moriarty, knowing he would probably get a few laughs at it before thinking over it.  
>Jack decided to work out, after that, wondering how long it'd be before he was wiped out completely.<p>

_Boss said you have what you want. You will get a phone call in about 20 minutes with the recall word._

_-SM_

At this point, Jack was shaking. He was about to be killed, after a few weeks of life. He sat down on his bed in his hotel room, his head in his hands. He had time for a few more texts, but he only had one person to send a text to.

_Moriarty has agreed to call me with the recall word. I'll be gone, and you'll have John back. I want you to know, that though I don't feel many emotions, the things I have felt for you in my short time have been the most amazing, like the night we spent together. You really should not have followed my orders concerning staying put, though. You've made yourself worse than you needed to be.  
>I guess I'm trying to say goodbye to you. There is no way I can come and see you beforehand, so this will have to do.<br>I understand your feelings towards John- if they're anything like how I feel for you then I wish you the best with him, even if his love isn't fully reciprocated. _

_I love you, Avery. I am sorry for hurting you in any way, it was unintended. You are the only person I have ever felt guilty about hurting._

_-Jack xxx_

He put his phone on the bedside table before putting on his army shirt. If he was going to die, he was going to be happy with the way he looked.

Mycroft read the text—he'd taken Sherlock's phone as the younger brother was in no fit state to do much of anything. The message explained everything Mycroft needed to know.

_When you see this, Dr. Watson, return to England post-haste. You need to see what you've done to my brother.  
>MH<em>

It was far more confrontational than he'd intended, but considering Sherlock's condition, it was the most polite thing he could think of. "Sherlock, please, eat something." Sherlock stared at his brother, eyes full of despair before weakly rolling to his side. It was clear he wanted all his agonies to end, to just die in order to escape the constant pain. "Sherlock, please."

"Why?"

"So you stay alive and so I don't have to take you to hospital again." Mycroft handed the sandwich out again, but Sherlock ignored it.

"Why?"

Mycroft sat on the bed and put one hand on Sherlock's hair. "Because…because I care. It breaks my heart to see you like this."

"Selfish." His voice dropped to a whisper he didn't realize or didn't care came out.

"Yes, Sherlock, love is selfish. You're already on IV fluids and your medication. Please don't give up eating altogether." Mycroft half-wanted to shove the sandwich into Sherlock's mouth, to force him to eat, but he knew it would do no good.

"John." Mycroft understood. Sherlock was refusing to eat until John returned. And even when he did return, Mycroft knew better than to show him to Sherlock immediately—he had cameras set up and would show the monitors to John.

_I spoke harshly. Please come home. Your actions have distressed him and I fear it's just a matter of time before he gives up entirely.  
>MH<em>

Meanwhile, in New York, John's phone was ringing, lit up by an unknown number. Jack knew who it was and answered it. "Hello, Captain Watson!" Moriarty's voice was gleeful. "I'm kind of disappointed in you," he said. "Three weeks? That's only about as long before Avery decided to get rid of himself. Still, it's been interesting. Fun, even. Ah-ah, don't speak, you'll ruin your final moments. Or what you think will be your final moments. You never know when you'll hear the trigger again. Anyway, tweet tweet, time to sleep, Captain." Jack didn't hear anything after that as he fell to the ground into a deep slumber for the next few hours.

John woke up at around midday. He remembered everything that had happened in the first few days. "Oh, god." He winced. _You've fucked everything up. _He hadn't packed his medication.

_Be home as soon as I can. No medication. Not well. I'm sorry._

_-John x_

He packed up his bags as quickly as possible, and checked out.

Mycroft read the message and sighed with relief. Whatever happened was in the past. Obviously, John was going to need counselling and shouldn't be left on his own, and for that reason, Anthea had been sent to the airport to meet him. But it was a long flight, and Mycroft knew he had to keep Sherlock holding on for just a few more days—hours until John's return, a bit longer before he'd be in any state to see John at all. "He's coming," he said. Sherlock smiled awkwardly before frowning. It was clear he didn't know what to think.

"John?"

"Yes." Sherlock shuddered and looked up at Mycroft. The only way Mycroft knew that Liam was in command was because he was making grabbing hands at his older brother, wanting physical attention, and Mycroft was reminded of his childhood when Sherlock had woken in the night crying, too young for speech but old enough to understand fear. He'd had this same expression. Mycroft awkwardly hugged him, and tried to pull away. Liam groaned and pulled Mycroft to him. "Liam, I have to get up." Liam whimpered and reluctantly let Mycroft go, and the older brother tucked him in before saying goodnight and switching off the lamp.

Instantly, Liam screamed, a horrible, bloodcurdling sound that drew Rachel, Mycroft's girlfriend, running to the bedroom and Mycroft to switch the lights on. Liam's pupils had contracted rather than expanded, and he was shaking wildly. Mycroft ran to his side and stroked Liam's hair, unsure of what else to do, while Rachel increased the dose of sedative in his IV slightly. "I'll leave the light on then. Goodnight, brother." He stood only to find that Liam was gripping his arm very tightly. "Liam, that hurts. Please stop." Liam's reply was to pull Mycroft down into the bed. The older Holmes rolled his eyes and tried to sit up again, but Liam grunted insistently and kept him down. "Liam, I have to—never mind." Liam had placed one of Mycroft's arms over his own shoulder, cuddling tight to his brother. Mycroft, annoyed, removed his arm, but Liam put it back with a determined grunt, and this was repeated several times. Mycroft eventually gave up trying to fight and drifted off, knowing Liam wouldn't sleep.

Several times in the night, Mycroft was woken up by Liam pulling his arm back on top or snuggling closer to him. Eventually, though, it was a text that woke him finally.

_JHW back in UK. Taking him to Holmes estate.  
>Anthea<em>

Mycroft stirred and stood. As expected, Liam hadn't slept, simply watched him with half-opened eyes. Mycroft wasn't used to sleeping with the light on, and his sleep had definitely suffered, but he stretched and smoothed down his suit. Liam made grabby hands again, trying to get someone to stay with him, and Mycroft found it very hard to say no. "Liam, I have to call someone. Rachel is here, she can look after you." Liam frowned and started crying, reaching for Mycroft as if he were going away forever. "It's only for a few minutes. I promise." He left the room, ignoring the half-screaming, and dialled John's phone.

"I'm pleased to hear you're alright, Dr. Watson. I would prefer it if you came to my estate post-haste. You may sleep here—there is a doctor on hand to tend to you physically, and both Dr. Thompson and Dr. Jenkins are on my phone list, should you require psychological attention." He paused and sighed, and when he spoke again, it was far from his usual clipped and cold tone. "It would be best for everyone if you were nearby. I…want you where I can keep track of you, where I can protect you."

"I'll be there soon. I just got off the plane in Heathrow. Could you send me a car? I have no idea how to get to your house." He sighed. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft. That wasn't me, I assure you. I would never do that to him, ever. You know that. Or at least I hope you know that. Please believe me."

"I understand. Anthea is coming around to pick you up." Mycroft paused for an instant. "It's good to have you back, John." John saw Anthea carrying a sign with his name on it, and a large man took John's luggage from him as she walked with him to the car, handing him his pills subtly and a small bottle of mineral water.

"Three weeks in America, Dr. Watson," Anthea said with a smile. "I hope it was as rejuvenating as I've heard, or perhaps it's more refreshing to be home again?" John didn't answer. "To Mr. Holmes's house," Anthea ordered and the car sped off.

Mycroft was at the door to greet John, and shook his hand vigorously. "You don't know how pleased I am that you're back," he said. "And I'm sure he will be, too." For a moment, a dark frown passed over his face. "But I don't think he's ready to see you just yet. If you like, I can show you to the security room." He poured himself a glass of scotch and offered one to John, who took it and started to gulp it down. "Moderation, Dr. Watson," Mycroft ordered as he led John to a room in the hallway.

There were half a dozen monitors, all focused on that room, all focussed on Sherlock. At the moment, a brunette of about Mycroft's age was tending to him. "That's Rachel," Mycroft explained. "My…girlfriend of sorts. She's a doctor. He's in good hands." Mycroft drank his entire glass of whiskey in one go before wiping his mouth nervously. "I'm sorry, this is…stressful." He slumped into the chair. "He is under constant mild sedation. He does not sleep. Once every three days, we have to fully sedate him or he will not sleep at all. Liam does not speak. He communicates with only grunts and pictures. Sherlock speaks very little in the shortest sentences he can. Avery—"

"Get off me, you bitch," Avery growled on the monitor, shoving Rachel aside as hard as he could. He dissolved into sobs as she closed the door, obviously holding it in. "He fucking left me. I love him. I fucking love him. He left. He fucking abandoned me. Bastard. Fucking bastard. He said he loved me too. He fucking loved me and he fucking_ left me_!" Avery's sobbing fit was loud and unrestrained.

There was a knock on the door and Rachel entered. "Rachel, this is John Watson. John, this is Rachel Jones." She shook John's hand.

"Thank God. For a while, we thought…never mind. It's good to know you're back, and maybe soon, he'll be ready to see you. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I know he's angry. He's violent." She gestured to her bruised cheekbone as if to demonstrate.

Mycroft was staring at the monitors as he spoke. "I think you should stay here for the night. For the next few nights. Until he's ready. You may stay here, watch him, and, if you choose, help yourself to the whiskey and cognac, though be aware that it is top-grade and isn't cheap." Mycroft left the room and went to see Avery.

"Get the fuck away from me, you could have stopped this shit I'm in, you know you could!" Avery grabbed Mycroft's arm and drew blood with his fingernails. He tensed up as if almost seizing, and Mycroft gently increased the IV sedatives until Avery calmed down, still muttering profanities, but stable. Mycroft returned to the monitoring room, refilling his glass along the way, and silently placing his hand on John's shoulder.

"I want to see him." John demanded. "I don't care about the risks, Mycroft. I want to see him." Mycroft sighed and led the way to the room.

John slowly entered the room. "I'm sorry for leaving, it wasn't me who made the decision to leave the country, I wasn't in control of my body. I love you, really, I'm sorry." Avery looked over at him, not saying anything, with tears streaming down his face. "Please forgive me." John went over to the bed and crouched down next to him, stroking his cheek softly. "I'm sorry. Please don't hate me for this. If I'd been in control of my body I would never have left you. You have to believe me, please."

Without warning, Avery grabbed John's head and pulled it to his own. "I love you, I love you, you fucking bastard, I love you," he sobbed around his sloppy kiss. "Three weeks, three weeks, I—" He laughed unsettlingly, throwing his head back and half-drowning himself in his tears. "I went mad without you, I didn't kill, I couldn't, I'm too broken, dear fucking Lord, I love you so much. I'm still pissed that you lied, that you said you love me as much as you love him, but I—" He dissolved into a groaning sobbing laughter, throwing his arms around John and sitting wordlessly, alternating between furious kissing and just enjoying his presence. "You'll have to go to the other room soon. Liam's going to be terrified, Sherlock's pretty pissed. It'll be ugly when they wake up. Give them a few hours." He took a deep breath and laid his head on John's shoulder. "I love you," he whispered, before a long, tender kiss. "More than anything else in the world."

"I love you too. Please, don't doubt that, not one bit." He kissed Avery softly before leaving.

When he left, Mycroft was waiting outside. "Avery is dominant, the others won't be happy with me when they are." He went to his own room, flopping onto the bed as soon as he was alone. The jet lag had started to kick in, and within moments he was asleep.

"John." Jack was standing over him, eagerly. "We've not spoken, yet." John sighed. "What do you want, Jack?"  
>"Just to introduce myself."<br>"Not now, I need to sleep." John buried his face in a pillow.  
>"You'll pay attention right now. Avery loves you more than me, doesn't he?"<br>John shrugged and grunted.  
>"Great. I'm glad that this is over now. I mean, I think it is. They're going to bring me back, be prepared."<p>

John woke up with a small shriek. He'd never imagined that he would ever have a problem like Sherlock did, but now he was starting to see the harsh reality of it.

Avery still couldn't sleep, sedation or no sedation, John's safety or not. He didn't want to get out of bed, and knew his muscles had atrophied to the point he probably couldn't anyway. He began humming, but it sounded wrong, distorted, unhinged. He heard John shriek and tumbled out of bed. He couldn't walk, the light sedation making him woozy, but he leaned on his IV stand for support, and wobbled out of the room and into the doorway to John's to see Rachel handing John a blanket. The first thing Avery thought was that she was coming onto his extremely ashen-faced lover (_Woman bringing blanket to man in bedroom_), but the anger faded when Avery realized how unwell John looked. He turned and went back to his room.

"You need some sleep, John," Rachel said. "Natural sleep, I don't want to give you any pills. They're not as good as natural sleep, even if they feel like it. You've been under a lot of stress and your subconscious needs to work it out." She rubbed him on the back, therapeutically rather than as a friend, and handed him a glass of warm milk.

In his room, at ten that night, Sherlock faded in, trying his hardest to think. Avery wasn't angry, he was tender, almost forgiving, he didn't know why, and it bothered him. Everything bothered him. Liam screaming in his head, constantly, every moment since Jack had put a muzzle on him, wearing out his nerves. Avery's lustful, drug-enhanced dreams that he was forced to share. The distant whispers of the voices of Avery's victims, only barely held at bay by the medication. The frantic violin in his head, discordant and constant. _Why would anyone take organs from a coma patient?_ John's smell, which lingered in the room, despite Angel-John long ago having vanished. "Why?" Living life as a shell, a broken mind in a fragile body, trying its best to keep on with its old life.

Mycroft's instincts woke him at 5:46, and he listened to them for once, making his way to Sherlock's room, hoping his intuition was wrong. There was a note in crayon reading _No point. Nothing left. Goodbye, Mycroft_ on the bedside table, and Mycroft turned to his paler-than-usual brother. He wasn't breathing. Mycroft flung the blankets off, bellowing for Rachel, and he placed his fingers to Sherlock's neck. There was no pulse.

He began administering CPR until Rachel arrived. Nothing was working. "You selfish bastard, Sherlock, please wake up," Mycroft muttered. Rachel was going full-out, CPR, rescue breaths, even pulling out the emergency crash cart that was in the corner and shocking him repeatedly. Two times. Three times. Four times. He still didn't respond. Rachel was on the verge of giving up, as any more resuscitation was medically nonviable, but Mycroft took the paddles and continued to shock his unwell brother. Finally, and after seven shocks, Sherlock moaned and gasped, not opening his eyes, but breathing again. Mycroft allowed any hint of façade to fall and grabbed his brother, half-sobbing. "Don't do that again, you idiotic man," Mycroft ordered as he clung tightly to the still-unconscious Sherlock. "I am not going to lose you, and certainly not to yourself." After fifteen minutes, Sherlock's eyes opened and his arms wrapped around Mycroft gingerly and weakly, and he, too, began sobbing, but wordlessly. Liam had known full well what had happened. "I don't care how you do it, but arrange it to where he can _not_ alter the level of his own medication," Mycroft snapped before sniffling. "I refuse to allow this to happen again. And he needs to see John now."

John was sitting outside the room when they went to get him. "It's my fault, isn't it? He tried to end it all because of me, even though I couldn't prevent it, it was still my fault, if I hadn't been captured by Moriarty he wouldn't be in control of this.. _ personality_ change. And he is! There's nothing I can do." Mycroft pulled him up off the floor and pulled him into the room.

John sat next to Sherlock, sobbing. "Please, I'm so sorry. I didn't leave on purpose, not by choice, it wasn't me. I love you, please, never do anything like that again."

Liam pulled away from him, grunting and screeching. He lay under the blankets, quivering weakly for quite some time, terrified that Jack would hurt him again, and John felt he was no longer wanted. Liam rolled over as John stood up, and John froze when he heard Liam gasp, and turned to see that his eyes had gone wide with wonder and joy. "Wings," he said quietly. "Wings! Wings!" He began to clap excitedly and happily, all trace of Sherlock's depression gone, and he grabbed John's arm and sat him down again. "Wings! Wings! Wings!" Liam reached towards John's back and stroked the air. "Wings," he said again and pulled John closer, as if never wanting to let him go. "Wings," he whispered. Mycroft smiled.

"That's the first thing Liam has said since he came here three weeks ago." Mycroft sniffed, more pleased than he wanted to show that there was some sign of hope for his troubled brother. Liam was pulling himself closer to John, his muscles atrophied and his limbs thin as humanly possible, cuddling into him. In his mind, he was trying to position himself where John's wings could wrap around him and keep him safe, and he wouldn't stop grinning.

"Wings. Angel wings. _John_ wings." His entire front was up against John, and he whispered "I love you" before drifting off into his first natural sleep in weeks.

John stayed with him, refusing to sleep in case Moriarty got in somehow. He watched Liam sleeping, he was frowning slightly, like he was having a bad dream. He opened his eyes occasionally, groaning. "Shh, sh, go back to sleep, I'm here." He nodded and closed his eyes, dropping off to sleep again.

Mycroft was stood in the doorway, telling him to sleep, reassuring him that nobody could get in. John eventually dropped off to sleep.

When he woke up, Sherlock was dominant, but he hadn't moved from the position Liam had been in. "Good morning." John croaked.

Sherlock looked apologetically sad. "I…good morning." He pushed John with two fingers, poking him, sniffing him, trying to make sure he wasn't just a hallucination. "Mycroft," he said rather loudly. "Come here."

"I am not your dog to be summoned, Sherlock," Mycroft said wearily as he entered the room after a few moments. "And yes, I can see him, and yes, he is back to normal."

"Good. Out." Mycroft rolled his eyes and did as instructed before Sherlock continued. "I made a mistake. I let it hurt. I was blinded by emotions, by fear and anger. I can't promise I won't try it again, there are no guarantees in life, but as long as you stay with me, I don't think I'll feel I need to." He closed his eyes and rested his head to John's chest. "You're the only one, John," he whispered sleepily. "Not even Mycroft, not really. Not as much." His hand closed around John's wrist as if feeling for a pulse. "You. I need you, more and more. You're the plastic coating on the safety glass that keeps the shattered bits from collapsing." He smirked. "Horrible if accurate metaphor." Sherlock placed his head on John's other wrist. "Pulse helps me relax. To sleep. Perchance to…" He'd drifted off again for a second. "Dream. Stay with me."

They lay for an hour, Sherlock managing to sleep, before Molly Hooper arrived with a tray of a full breakfast for each of them. "Hi, I, oh, sorry, um…" She flushed bright red at disturbing them. "I'll just leave this here."

"Molly," Sherlock said.

"Yes?"

"Thank you." Molly smiled at Sherlock's gratitude and left quietly. Sherlock picked up the tray and began scarfing down his meal, absolutely famished. "Y'nna eat?"

John nodded, and tucked in. Molly sat in the chair next to the bed, making idle chit chat, totally unaware of what had happened, totally unaware of Jack. She'd just assumed that Sherlock had gone through a relapse.

After about an hour, she decided to leave, wishing Sherlock the best with his recovery. When she was gone, Mycroft came in. "Can he come home to Baker street now? Please? I want my own bed, and my own mug, and especially my own chair. I'm not leaving him, though." Mycroft sighed and sat down, explaining that Sherlock was incredibly weak.

"He hasn't been out of bed in weeks, you know. Muscular atrophy has set in. I've not seen him this thin since I brought him home from Switzerland, and I've never seen him so…waif-like." Mycroft shrugged. "It's up to him."

In protest, and as if to prove himself, Sherlock stood, legs wobbling so badly he looked like a newborn calf. "I can…I can…walk." He was focusing hard to stand, and he took a step forward and fell down, catching himself with his weakened arms, which also buckled. "No!" He slapped Mycroft's hand away. "I'll do it myself." He didn't tell them that the voices and the violin were louder, feeling like they were grounding him down, stressing his mind. He shook his head and pulled himself into bed again, panting. "Yes. Well. We'll need to work on that." He reached his hand up and it was shaking from exhaustion. "My pills, the hallucinations. Need them to stop." Mycroft nodded and left the room to get them.

John turned to Sherlock. "I'll carry you, let's just go home, curl up, watch a film with some tea, or do whatever you feel like doing. I can't be bothered staying here, Mycroft has a life too."

When they finally convinced Mycroft to let them leave, he made them wait while he packed up Sherlocks things and ordered a car. "You alright with this? Need me to carry you?"

Sherlock sniffed. "I don't care how much you care for me, I'm walking on my own. Or mostly." He wobbled out to the car and got in, breathing heavily, overexerted. "The cafeteria workers," he muttered, scrambling for his phone.

_Cross-check cafeteria staff with medical degrees with names of patients who didn't make transplant lists nationwide, past decade. Look for family ties.  
>SH<em>

Once they got to Baker Street, he was greeted with a cautious Louis, who sniffed John and cautiously pawed at his feet before running upstairs. John had to help Sherlock up the steps, half-collapsing at the midway point, but too stubborn to allow himself to be carried completely. He was sweating from exertion by the time he got to the living room and shut his eyes the instant he'd managed to lay himself on the sofa, pale and apparently in pain. The mess had been cleaned, probably by Mrs. Hudson, and Louis had been bathed and brushed, happy to see Sherlock, and jumping onto his stomach. Sherlock didn't react except to gasp painfully. He opened his eyes suddenly. "Morphine." He turned to look at John. "That's what they had me on. Constantly. Look," he said, voice quaking and holding out a violently shaking hand. "Withdrawals beginning already." He flung his head back to the pillow. "I…don't…there's morphine in the bathroom, in the drawer by the sink. Third down, hidden compartment in the back." Louis began kneading his paws on Sherlock's stomach, purring, and Sherlock started to breathe harder. "Intravenous administration. It hurts. Damn Mycroft, he should have known he was awakening old demons. Or Rachel, probably." He shut his eyes again. "Rachel awakening addictions, not Mycroft awakening Rachel. He probably does that, too." He winced. "Bathroom. Morphine. Get it now."

"No. I said I was putting an end to this addiction, no matter what it was. I'll have a word with that woman, more than a word." John was starting to get angry, more so than he usually would. "I'm going to hurt her, seriously, who the fuck does she think she is? Mycroft must of explained it to her, the moron."

Sherlock begged and begged until John gave in, giving him three quarters of a dose without him knowing. Sherlock dropped off to sleep, whilst John phoned Mycroft to give him a piece of his mind.

"You need to understand, John, that he was hysterical. I found him naked and muzzled and covered in his own filth. He hadn't eaten in days, was on the verge of dangerous dehydration, and hadn't been able to take his medication." Mycroft seemed tense. "The first day he was there, he screamed nonstop. No one could sleep. After that, we tried sedative after sedative, nothing stopped him from dissolving. The morphine was the only thing that helped."

Sherlock half-woke, staring at the empty window area. "Not my fault, I wasn't given a choice."

Mycroft couldn't hear the interruption, and continued talking over it. "I warned her about his…problems. She insisted it was the best thing. As a medical professional, I trusted her judgement."

Sherlock moaned. "I didn't—I know, Father! Are you satisfied now? I know. I can't help it, it's who I am, no different from…from…yes, from my distance, my coldness."

"I didn't want this, John. Heroin metabolises in the body into morphine once it's in the brain, and we've skipped a step. I've already reported Rachel, and her medical license has been temporarily suspended pending further inquiry into this incident." He sighed. "How is he?"

"I…arretez-vous, please. I'm never going to be…worth anything…to…you…" Sherlock dropped off again, fingers twitching and face scrunched up.

John waited with Sherlock until he was awake. "No more now. I'm taking you to a rehab. I'll stay with you, though. I promised you. I can't do this addiction thing again, you're destroying yourself, even though you didn't administer the first dose." He got into the bed with Sherlock next to him and locked their fingers together. "I love you, really, I do. I don't want you to die, and if these addictions go on for much longer, there's a great chance you will." Sherlock sighed and looked John in the eye. John softly brushed his lips against Sherlocks. "Trust me. Please. I want whats best for you, but you'll need to agree before I can get you help."

Sherlock was pale, and he looked at John desperately before nodding slowly. "I don't want you to see me in pain. I don't want you…to…I'm sorry, I didn't want, I didn't, Father was right, I'm always addicted to something." He closed his eyes. He really didn't want to go to rehab, not again, and not when this time had nothing to do with him—Jack drove him to his breakdown, the breakdown required him to be sedated, nothing else worked. But he knew he'd be in severe pain and a hospital for the purpose of rehabilitation was the best place to recover. "I'll go. But I need you to visit daily, as often as you can. To know you're still there." John nodded as a shiver ran through Sherlock. He was obviously in pain, but he was doing very well at hiding the fact that he felt lightning in every nerve, the most happening was grunting. "Just got home and I'm leaving again. Make the appointment."


	15. Rehab

Sherlock was still trembling as he was helped down the stairs and into the cab. He felt very sick, which was to be expected, and he held his jaw firmly set to keep from vomiting. To be more accurate, he felt ill, feverish and dizzy, and his atrophied arms and legs weren't helping. He was doused in sweat and felt horrible, just wanting to curl up and wither away, knowing it was only going to get worse. He felt distant, too, again as if in a high fever, and pulled back from John in the cab, not registering when John told the cabbie of the destination. He stared at the ceiling, shaking, leaning on the door, trying to ignore his images of an extremely pale and semiconscious Avery in front of him and a vomiting Liam in the fourth seat. "J-john," he said quietly, trying to make conversation to stay conscious. "H-how are y-you feel-ling? B-beside-des ab-bout me. S-sad? C-cross? Empt-ty? Your-r c-core em-motion." He could see that John didn't quite understand. "Av-very is ang-ger, Liam-m, hap-piness. I used t-to be c-confid-dence, n-now I'm…l-listlessn-ness. H-how m-much h-have you ch-ch-changed since J-jack? I n-need t-to know." He stared at John, hoping for an answer—as was Avery.

"I'm scared." John said in a flat tone. "Scared, not just about you. About what's going to happen to me." Sherlock nodded. "Jack could come back at any moment, and we don't know what's going to trigger him. We don't even know what started it the first time around, let alone this code Moriarty has planted into my head." He sighed and looked out of the window. "It's horrible. At least you know your hallucinations. Jack is a stranger to me. He hurts you three, which isn't like me at all. I want him gone."

"I n-never want-ted any of th-this," Sherlock said, rather pitifully. "I d-don't know h-how to h-help you, I f-feel usel-less. Kn-nowing how t-twisted up-p I f-feel ever-ry day with th-them in my h-head and kn-nowing they'll n-never g-go aw-way. I d-don't w-want to s-see you l-like m—" He took a deep breath and looked upward. "I'm-m…fright-tened, too. B-because of J-jack. The m-morphine. N-ninety-eight-t per c-cent relaps-se rate for m-morphine ad-diction." He forced a laugh. "B-but you kn-new that." He weakly wiped a tear away. "Once it g-gets in the b-blood, morph-phine _is_ h-heroin." He hiccupped. "I d-didn't w-want this-s." He stared at his hallucinations, who were just as ill as he felt. "S-s-sorry."

They arrived at the rehab clinic, where John insisted that Sherlock have a wheelchair to get him inside, answered questions about his normal medications and the circumstances and length of his addiction, and Sherlock had to say that he was attending rehab of his own free will. Sherlock felt as if he were phasing out but no one was taking over, and he clenched his fist weakly. "C-cravings," he muttered. He was taken to a room very much like a posh hotel room for observation and John was told to go home and come back the next day.

John couldn't sleep and watched the evening gossip news without noticing, until Sherlock's name came up. "Famous detective Sherlock Holmes was seen checking into a rehab clinic today, so physically weak, he had to be pushed in a wheelchair by his ex-boyfriend. Sources tell us he had a near-fatal overdose of morphine and his family and friends are forcing him to get help." There was a long-lens view of Sherlock being taken from the cab into the hospital, and he looked even thinner on television than he did in reality. "This isn't the first time he's been in drug rehab—Mr. Holmes has a known cocaine addiction that he's struggled with for years." John switched the television off in disgust.

Avery woke in the middle of the night, stomach cramping violently, and instantly started calling for John. He squinted into the darkness, seeing his victims standing around him, just staring. "C-come f-for—" He broke off, vomiting, and a few nurses came into the little room to clean it up. Avery was shaking, in so much pain he was fighting back tears and sweating so badly he was practically in a puddle. "J-john, w-where…?"

"It's three in the morning, Mr. Holmes."

"D-don't c-call me th-that!" Avery pulled himself into a ball with a strangled cry, and grabbed the nurse's arm with his whole (if weak) strength. "G-get-t J-john, I d-don't giv-ve a f-fuck how-w, just-t g-get him-m here."

John received a phone call in the early hours of the morning, from a distressed nurse, demanding that he got to the hospital at once.

When he arrived, Avery was screaming loudly for him. "Calm down, I'm here." John yawned. "Cup of coffee please?" He nodded at the nurse and then turned to Avery. "What's wrong? It's three in the morning, I'm exhausted." He yawned again and got in the bed next to Avery. "I'll stay, if you want? Just calm down."

"It-t hurts," Avery practically whimpered. "It f-fuck-king hurts, John-n." He rolled his head around, shaking violently, and on the verge of tears. "I c-can't do this, give m-me someth-thing, an-nything," he moaned, and the nurses nodded and left the room. Soon, a knock at the door signaled that the doctor had arrived. Avery shook again, and grunted, and John answered the door, letting the doctor in.

"I didn't realize the withdrawals were this bad already," the doctor said and handed Avery a pill while John got him a glass of water. Avery downed it without a second thought, and broke off his sip with a cough. "On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in?"

"Nine and three-qu-quarters," Avery said before falling back into bed, writhing. "And-d it's on-nly going to get wor-rse," he moaned. The doctor noted down the information.

"That was a low-dose vicodin. It'll help with the withdrawals, but it won't make them go away completely. This won't be fun, but it's necessary." He smiled reassuringly, having seen this dozens of times before, and left.

"St-tay, Joh-hn. P-please." Avery reached out a shaking hand and laced his fingers with John's, finally falling asleep as the vicodin started to kick in.

He dreamed he was on a medieval rack, being stretched along with Sherlock and Liam, naked and being whipped with chains and whips, repeatedly and unable to escape.

He woke up, trembling, Liam, and he was already in enough pain that he started crying loudly. "Why does it h-h-hurt? I'm sor-rry, world-d, I d-didn't mean t-to be bad-d, p-p-please d-don't m-make me hurt-t." It was clear that he was somewhat delirious as well, and he curled up as tightly as he could.

"Withdrawals. It's going to be okay, I promise. You just need to sleep it off, or walk it off, or something. I don't know. I'm scared." John held Liam in his arms, trying his best to calm him, until he dropped off to sleep from exhaustion.

Later on, a nurse came in to escort Liam to a support group. Liam grabbed on to John and refused to go without him. "Right, fine. I'll go with you."

When they arrived, Liam demanded to sit on Johns knee. The rest of the group looked at him oddly, wondering why a grown man couldn't sit in his own chair.

"So, Mr Holmes, tell us about yourself and why you want help."

Liam was biting his sleeve, gnawing and sucking on it in an attempt to keep from screaming. "Rchl md m n oshnn bk—" John wrestled the sleeve from his mouth, at which Liam wasn't very pleased, and when he spoke, it was very slowly and with a lot of effort to keep from stammering. "Rachel made me an ocean because Jack hurt me and I was always screaming and scared." He swallowed, trying to focus on anything but the pain and the circle of people around him. "But then John came back and took me home and I hurt and I really want to be an ocean again and Avery's choir is watching me…" He turned around and reached his arms around John, shoes falling off his feet and his toes curling in agony.

"And who is Jack?"

Liam hiccupped and pulled closer to John. "A M-m-monster."

"Is he your father?" Clearly the doctor thought he was reliving childhood trauma, but Liam laughed slightly and wiped his nose on his other sleeve.

"No, Father is my father, silly, Jack is John's Avery." He ran his arms up his ears as if trying to rub out the ghostly sounds of Avery's victims, trying to drown it out with the sound of his own pulse, moaning slightly like a too-tired toddler.

"And who is Avery?"

"Avery is the Monster that lives inside my head." Liam had started to sweat profusely, but he was better than the previous day, as he was on a milder opiate to step him down rather than cut him off completely. The doctor checked his notes and nodded once he saw Dissociative Identity Disorder.

"How long have you been taking morphine? If you don't mind my asking." The doctor had his notes ready, the other group growing more and more uncomfortable with Liam's behaviour—not many grown adults clung to their friends as a frightened child clings to their parent.

"I started to take it when I was…um…twenty-two. That was…" He scrunched up his face, normally razor-sharp mind dulled significantly. "Fourteen years ago. But only a little when the world hurt and no other time. Rachel gave it to me for three weeks every minute because I couldn't stop screaming." He started pounding on his head with his fists, the violin in his mind growing less harmonious by the second. "Stop, screaming violin, stop." John pulled his hands away and the look in Liam's eyes was absolutely pitiful, a look of hopelessness, desperation, and fear. "I think there's a dementor in the room," he said softly, but louder than he thought as he was trying to talk over the nonexistent violin. "I can't see it because I'm a muggle, but I feel sad and scared, like all the happy has been sucked out of me…" Liam began to cry again, quietly.

"What was the final push that led you to come here?"

"Um…it hurt when I went home and also before that, Sherlock tried to die with morphine." He grunted and pulled tighter, stomach cramps beginning again. "Please, I want to go back to sleep now, I want to be an ocean, I am very very bad right now in my head and I just want to be alone except for John…"

When they finally went back to Sherlocks room, Liam jumped onto the bed and hid under the covers, refusing to go back down to another meeting. John calmed him down with some cartoons- ones that weren't going to trigger him.

"It's meal time, Mr Holmes." A nurse knocked on the door before pushing it open with a large tray of food. "I got what you asked for, fish, chips, ice cream with sprinkles for dessert?" Liam smiled and clapped his hands. "You have to take more medicine and morphine, though. It's going to hurt, so after you've had something to eat and taken what you need, I want you to go to sleep." She nodded at John, signalling that he should probably go home so he could rest.

"I don't want John to go away ever again," Liam said, taking John's hand. "I love you," he grinned. "I forgot to tell you because I hurt too much earlier, but I promised I would say it to you whenever I'm awake and I keep my promises." John smiled gently and said he had to go, and Liam cried softly. "But…okay," he finished lamely, wiping a tear away. "I'm sorry I keep you from sleeping, I don't mean to make you upset," he mumbled. "Bye, I love you," he called as John left.

The small amount of morphine wasn't enough to keep all the withdrawal symptoms at bay, just enough to keep him from being in too much pain. But Avery thrashed around in his sleep, knocking his head against the headboard and bruising his arm on the bedside table. He woke up before the dawn with a shout of pain, and his atrophied legs were shaking as he tried to go to the toilet—he was fairly certain he was going to vomit. He didn't, staring down the toilet until his legs gave way and he fell to the floor. "I'm gonna kill that bitch," he groaned, referring to Rachel. "I'm going to fucking kill her." His head swam as he floated in and out of unconsciousness, aware that the worst of it was starting. Almost as if in a dream, he forced himself to crawl back into his bed and to try to sleep again.

Sherlock was caressing John in the dream, stroking his collarbone and gun-shot scar. They were in the barn in France, reliving that moment, naked and passionate, and Sherlock licked his lips to feel vampire fangs. He ran his hands down John's hips, pressed himself to him, making love, or trying. Then he realized what he was missing, why he couldn't feel anything, and bit into John's neck, drinking greedily, the warm sticky flow more precious to him than anything.

"No, Sher…stop," John moaned weakly, dying as Sherlock guzzled more and more blood. But Sherlock wouldn't listen—he couldn't listen. "Sh…" John weakly tried to push Sherlock off, tried to pry the fangs out of his carotid, but he was too weak and it was too late. The pump of blood to Sherlock's mouth stopped. John was dead. Sherlock pulled his head away.

"Ggjohn?" He burbled through the blood in his mouth, running a finger down John's pale face, distorted in weakened agony and frozen until the flesh rotted. "I…please." He put his lips to the wound again and licked the last drop of blood from John's body. "You're within me now." He felt the warmth of John's blood in his stomach, and it made him feel alive, as if he now had something to pump through his veins. Once again, he felt John's cold, grey war-wound and smiled.

He woke up with a scream that broke off into vomiting, repeatedly, until Sherlock could no longer breathe except with dangerous gasps, coughing before vomiting again, vomiting so much that there ended up blood in the puddle, every single thing he'd had to eat over the last day and a half being chucked up until he started to vomit his own stomach lining. It took fifteen minutes for him to stop, and when he did, he was shaking and pale, eyes dilated, tears streaming down his face, and stomach writhing. "J—" He violently coughed and retched again and reached out for John's hand, desperately needing to know John was still alive—he'd forgotten that John had left for the night.

John managed to have a few hours sleep before returning to the hospital the next day. When he arrived, a nurse informed him that Sherlock was hysterical, demanding to see him, claiming that if he didn't see him it meant he was dead.  
>"Right. Uhm, I'll go up now."<p>

When he reached the room, Sherlock was in the corner, crying, and rocking slightly. "Shh, listen. I'm alright. Do you want to tell me what happened?" John kissed him on the top of his head before picking up the frail man and taking him to the bed. "I'm here. I love you. I'm not going anywhere."

"It hurts, John. It hurts. I don't want to do this anymore." Sherlock clung weakly to John's shirt. "The nightmare. I had it again. The barn. But this time, I was a vampire, I wanted nothing but your blood, I killed you for my own pleasure, I—I liked it, I wanted it, I didn't regret it." He shut his eyes tightly as tears of pain streamed out. "That was worse than anything, John. I don't have nightmares about what Moriarty did. I don't wake in the middle of the night because of what Avery's done. It was _that_. The blood. Hearing you trail off, knowing you would die because of what I'd—" He rolled away from John and vomited again. "I need a way to forget." When he looked back up, his eyes were bloodshot. "Anything."

For some unknown reason, even to himself, at that moment, even though Sherlock was covered in bloody vomit; John grabbed his face and kissed him. Sherlock was surprised, and didn't pull away at once. "I'm not going to leave, or die, or anything. I'm not sure what to do, not at all, but I'm going to be here. In fact, I'm not leaving the hospital, I'll get Mycroft to bring my things up and I'll stay in this room. I don't want to see you like this again, I _can't._"

"No one should see me like this, I shouldn't _be_ like this." Sherlock shuddered as a feverish chill ran through him. "Being here should be enough. You're the only one I want h—" He clenched up and pressed his legs together with a yelp. "Felt—like—like a—oh, now I've remembered about the painful ejacula—" He inhaled sharply and gagged, but this time did not vomit. "A Hell for which I was not prepared," he moaned weakly. He lay on his side as John stroked his hair, soothing him emotionally and partly physically. The voices were swirling, threatening to overwhelm him, as were the sights of Avery's victims running about in circles around him, laughing at his misery. And his father was hitting him, in the stomach, in the groin, and then all at once it stopped—his mind had, for the moment, run away.

The doctor came in to take an assessment, and noted Sherlock's state. "He's neurologically fine," he said after checking his pupils and reflexes. "Sometimes, in the more ill patients, this happens. Keep an eye on his pulse and breathing." The doctor left the room.

By the time Sherlock moaned again, it was well into the afternoon and he was sweating as freely as if he'd run a summer marathon. His eyes had dilated to the point they were almost black, and he shivered again. "John?" It was Sherlock's tone. "I don't know who I am," he said. When he spoke again, his face had Avery's unmistakable confused anger, but his vocal mannerisms said Sherlock, and yet his words were Liam's. "I feel like all of me, but not the way I used to. I feel fuzzy and faint and a little bit like a mixed up puzzle with all the bits there but in the wrong places. And I hurt. Please sing to me." John looked confused, but Sherlock/Avery/Liam continued, snapping in Avery's growl. "Sing! You said Harry would sing when your father was being mean to your mother to make you feel better, sing me that song. Now please. I need something to distract me from this agony."

John sang Blackbird by the Beatles, quite softly, while Sherlock/Avery/Liam lay his head in his lap. He seemed to calm down, looking as if he was half way between dreaming and consciousness. John ran his fingers through his hair, feeling rather embarrassed about his singing voice, but it seemed to calm whoever it was that was dominant at the moment.

Sherlock/Avery/Liam's breathing had calmed down, but he still occasionally grunted and twitched. "Les cris," he mumbled once or twice before half-shutting his eyes again. John turned on the television but left it muted, reading the closed captioning to understand what was going on. Sherlock/Avery/Liam eventually rolled over, clutching his stomach and vomiting once more, bright red blood tingeing the almost pure acid.

There was a knock on the door, and Moriarty came in, dressed as Richard Brook, and the instant John leapt up, he smiled. "Calm down, Dr. Watson, I'm here just to talk to Sherlock." John didn't move, blocking the way to Sherlock's bed area. "Don't make me wake Jack up," Moriarty moaned with a roll of his eyes, and unsurprisingly John moved.

Sherlock/Avery/Liam looked up weakly, wiping the vomit from his face, and stared, frozen and unsure of what to do. Liam wanted to hide, Avery to kill, and Sherlock to hear what he had to say before deciding which of the other two to follow. Moriarty looked him up and down, clearly suppressing a smile, but the glee was in his eyes. "Aww, poor Sherlock," he said, mock-pityingly. "It's a pity to see you like this, it really is." Sherlock/Avery/Liam grunted, an attempt at conversation too overwhelmed by pain to form words. "I just wanted to pop by, see how my…friend was getting on. Rehab's a bitch, or so I've heard."

"Friend," Sherlock/Avery/Liam muttered.

"Weeell, Seb's nice and all, a good warm body when I want one, and useful in a pinch, but there's just something about you, Sherlock. Something I've always wanted." For once, Moriarty looked sincere and almost vulnerable, as if allowing himself a rare moment of weakness. "I just want you, Sherlock, in every possible way."

"Fuck off," came a very surreal combination of Avery's words with Liam's intonation. "That's rude, Avery."

Moriarty turned to John and made a pitying face. "Aw. Bless." He put a small box on the bedside table, and Sherlock/Avery/Liam shakily opened it. It was a chess piece, a white queen, hand-carved. "Just your friendly reminder that I own you, Sherlock. You and everyone you know." Then his sinister grin returned. "I know things about your brother that could make even Avery ill. I could send Lestrade to prison or make Molly Hooper into a murderer. I could give your poor mother a heart attack and put your sister on the run. And Mrs. Hudson, poor Mrs. Hudson…I know some things that only you and I know about her past, about her husband. It wouldn't be too hard to get her extradited. I'm just being nice."

Sherlock/Avery/Liam decided that Avery had the best course of action, and he stood up and lunged for Moriarty, but his legs were too weak and his blood pressure too low, and he fell down with stars in his eyes, reaching out to grab Moriarty any way possible. He only just registered John ordering Moriarty out and a nonchalant "okay" before the rush of blood back to his head deafened him and he barely saw Moriarty blow a kiss as he left.

John stood near the bed with a blank expression on his face, sort of like he was in shock. "How the fuck can he get in so easily? I'm sure Mycroft asked them to keep him out, no matter what he says his name is." John helped Sherlock to the bed before getting in with him. "It's alright. I know I won't hurt him, but Jack will. He won't get to us again." He kissed him on the top of the head and began singing softly again, sending Sherlock/Avery/Liam back to sleep.

"He…didn't hurt me," Sherlock/Avery/Liam said, puzzled and starting to form more toward Liam. "Why?" He stared at the chess piece, wondering why a gift had been made of the occasion when he himself was incredibly vulnerable. "Did maybe he actually care?" Then he shook his head. "Stupid, he obviously wouldn't. He couldn't." He sighed and began absently holding John's hand. "I'm sorry this has happened. Nothing much could have changed this, unless we were to either never have met or I would never have fallen. And I think you would be dead in either case." He picked up the little chess piece and examined all the details. It really was a fine piece of craftsmanship, expertly carved by someone with years of practise. Sherlock/Liam sniffed it (Avery was settling down, almost out of dominance). "New. Carved specifically for me." He was finding that the chess piece was giving him the distraction he needed to focus on something other than the pain of withdrawals, and Moriarty's motives interested him, regardless of the situation. It was almost as good as painkillers, he realized as he ran his thumb down the curve of the wood. He bit his lip, knowing that that wasn't right. Then he yelped again and squeezed his legs together. "Three days," he shivered. "Three days before the worst has passed." He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling once again the oddly soothing texture of the wood.

"Starving," he said idly a few minutes later, more than a little aware that if he ate something, he may not be able to keep it down. Nevertheless, he ate a small portion of pasta that had arrived not long after Moriarty's departure. He also drank greedily from the sports drink that had been provided to replenish his electrolytes, knowing he was dehydrated. And to his amazement, while there was severe nausea, there was no vomiting.

He continued to stare at the chess piece for over an hour, left hand intertwined with John's right, and idly rubbing his thumb along John's. There were times his hand would clench as he grunted, another spasm plaguing him as he sweated profusely, trying to ignore the paranoia seeping in. "I'm exhausted. But I know I won't be able to sleep with the pain and the nightmares." He winced and curled up slightly as his stomach made a glorping sound, and then he burst into tears. "I didn't mean to, I really didn't, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" John asked for an explanation, confused at the sudden mood change, and Sherlock/Liam just bawled like an upset infant, involuntarily kicking out before managing to stammer out an explanation. "I soiled myself," he whimpered, knowing he was too physically weak to do anything about it. "It just happened and I didn't mean it to, and now I'm stinky and I feel gushy in my pants. I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry…please forgive me?"

John sighed and got out of bed. "Wait there." He went into the bathroom and ran him a bath, knowing he was too weak to stand up for a shower. When the bath was full, he went back into the room and helped him to the bathroom. Sherlock/Avery/Liam undressed himself shakily before getting in, crying, obviously ashamed. "I'm a doctor. I've seen this all before, it's okay. I know you can't help it. I'm going to go and get the nurses to change the bed sheets, be back now."

"I…" Sherlock/Liam pursed his eyebrows as if having trouble thinking. "Okay." He sat in the water, and began scrubbing his arms as John left. The need to wash dissolved as something about the texture of the soap triggered hallucinations of blood pouring down his arms, a vision that would not be dispelled no matter how hard he tried to clean himself, and a vision from which Liam fled. When John returned, Sherlock was scrubbing so furiously that his arms were an unhealthy shade of pink and the skin was being torn in places. "Wash it off," he muttered frantically. "Wash it off." He spasmed and clenched his legs together again with a sharp yelp as another agonizing ejaculation hit. He gasped and shuddered for a few seconds, the pulse in his neck strong and fast, and then continued to scrub. "Wash it off, wash it off, wash it off." He didn't stop, the pain making him more frantic, and his voice cracking. "Wash it, wash it off, wash, wash it off, wash it all off, get it off."

"Stop, stop." John grabbed his arms. "You're having a hallucination. It's alright, there's nothing to wash off. Trust me." He nodded, and let his arms go. Sherlock/Avery/Liam leaned back in the bath, with a sigh. "You have sick in your hair." John tutted. "I'll wash it for you." He turned on the shower which scared whoever was in control slightly. "It's alright, it's just the shower." John went on to shampoo his hair, humming as he went, hoping he was calming everyone down.

And it was, though it seemed to Sherlock a bit distorted, and suddenly he vomited again. "Blood, get it off, get it out, make it stop," he moaned, once again scrubbing at his arms. He thrashed about, falling down, but John caught him and lowered him gently. He was crying and shaking, trying to cover himself, not for John's benefit, but to hide himself from the ever-present circle of Avery's victims now joined by his own father, stern and disapproving. "Make them go away," he whispered. "I—no," he said, head flopping backwards but immediately regretting it and snapping to the foetal position before his bowels once again opened up. "Stop, make it fix, fix me, use the needle," he whimpered. "God of dreams," he whispered, eyes rolling.

John pressed the button that called the nurse, a few times. More than one medical professional came up to the room, carrying needles for sedation. "Alright, Mr Holmes. We need to sedate you so we can clean you up. It's going to hurt a bit, but you'll be asleep in no time at all. Dr Watson is staying here, don't worry." The nurse slid the needle into his arm, which caused him to cry out. "There, there. It's alright. Just go to sleep."

Sherlock's hand slowly let go of John's collar with a sigh, and then he was out. He looked awful, thin and frail and tormented both in mind and body, and even under sedation violently kicked out. But he seemed calmer, seemed to be actually resting, and even snored a little for about an hour. He still needed cleaning every hour and a half or so, but he stayed unconscious through most of it.

He was dreaming. A large figure, swirled in the pinks and greens of half-asleep vision stood before him. He looked somewhat like a cross between John and Mycroft, but with the musculature and beard of a mythological god. Liam was in a field nearby, skipping through the flowers and laughing, pulling a kite behind him. Avery was with Jack, kissing him and making love to him. Sherlock realized he was seeing their dreams and paused to think about them. The figure raised one hand to his lips when Sherlock opened his mouth to ask who he was, and Sherlock found himself obeying. The man put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, and he felt puny as he was scooped up and placed to rest on a cloud, where he curled up in an unrealistic softness and watched as his neighbour clouds drifted past. The only sounds were the wind, Liam's laughter, and Avery's pleasured giggles, and Sherlock felt at peace.

He opened his eyes slowly and realized that it was nearly noon the next day. He was almost pain-free, if still twitching. The worst of the symptoms were being masked or eased by whatever sedative he'd been given, and he allowed a small smile to cross his face. John was watching television, again with the sound off, and when Sherlock shifted in the bed, he turned to see Sherlock looking oddly lucid, understandably high from the sedation, but calm, and he smiled. "Hello," he said. "Sherlock at the moment. The others are still dreaming. Dreaming…"

John smiled and stroked his forehead. "I'm glad you feel better, even if it's only for a while. Do you want something to eat?" Sherlock nodded. "I'll get them to bring you some soup, it's probably all you can manage at the moment."

When his soup arrived, John had to feed Sherlock. He put the science channel on the television on for Sherlock after he was finished; knowing that it would help to have something interesting in the background. "I'm going to get a shower, if you need me just shout." Sherlock nodded as John kissed him on the top of the head and left the room.

"It'll wear off soon," Sherlock called. He tried to focus again on the chess piece, wondering why he got a queen of all pieces. "Of course," he said. "Can move in any direction, more agile than the king, frequently sacrificed for the greater good, and often the biggest threat." He tilted his head as he stroked it again, feeling it soothe, and for a moment, he wondered if it were coated with some sort of drug. But the worry passed as quickly as it had come, and he licked his lips as he examined it, feeling his stomach start to churn, but ignoring it. "The question is…who's the king?"

He twiddled it in his hand as he watched the television, only half-paying attention to it. He felt odd—he could no longer feel Avery or Liam in his mind at all, but he knew they were still there, just still and silent, still dreaming. It was pleasantly like being back to normal with the exception of the fact that he kept running over extensions of their dreams; their minds were still dreaming and he got flashes of what they saw, but nothing more. By the time John returned from showering, Sherlock had fallen asleep again, holding the chess piece loosely as he snored near-dreamlessly, except for swirling colours.

John took the chess piece from his hand and put it back on the table. He turned off the TV, closed the curtains and pulled the blanket over Sherlock. He looked like he did before he went into Sensory overload, so John wanted to try and prevent it.

The nurses came up to give him more medication, food and fluids; crowded round the bed, causing Liam to come into dominance. He whimpered and cried for John, before turning to Avery and knocking one of the nurses to the floor. "Calm down." John grabbed his hand and smiled at him, which caused him to soften slightly, though he wasn't pleased about his arms being jabbed with needles.

Avery blinked confusedly as he was starting to grow delirious again. "Get off me, get away from me," he gasped at the nurses. "Leave me the fuck alone, just let me be here with John, let me suffer in silence or drug me up or something, just get the fuck out!" He shivered as a chill ran through him. "Pain's coming back," he moaned. "And I feel…distant. Probably the delirium." He took his soup bowl and drank it down instead of slowly sipping it, his shaking hands slopping it all over his face and down his chin. "So thirsty. So hungry. It hurts." He was shaking again, and looked up at John almost pitifully. "I—" He yelped once more, slamming his legs together and vomiting again, making sure to aim for the wooden floors and not his bed. "Fucking hell," he mumbled shakily. "Feels like some fucker's been jabbing me in the damn dick with fucking needles, the fucking big ones they use for drawing blood for donations." He flopped back into bed. "Just one more day," he moaned, eyes shut and sweating hard. "One more day before the physical symptoms start to go away. And then I'm going to be fine, it'll let up, I'll just have the meetings and the cravings. Wish I had something to ease it in the meantime."

John cleaned up Averys vomit with a frown. "There's nothing we can do, sadly. I mean, I can't even hug you without hurting you, and you definitely can't smoke." He cleaned himself up and came out of the bathroom to find Avery smoking at the window. "Right." He didn't press the matter, instead, he got in the bed. He hadn't slept in a while, and it was obviously taking its toll. He called the the nurse to bring up some food and drink for Avery. "Come on. Put that out, come to bed. The nurse is bringing you what you need now."

Avery looked at his half- smoked cigarette with a regretful sigh before stamping it out. He made his way over to the bed, managing to put a knee up before turning bright pink and angry, shuddering once more as goosebumps ran up and down his arms. "Fucking shat myself again," he swore, and staggered to the little bathroom to clean himself up. As thin as he'd been before, he'd easily dropped a good ten pounds, and he noted this with a disgraceful grunt. "What the fuck are you staring at?" he snapped at his hallucinations as another bout of the runs hit (fortunately, he had felt it coming and sat on the toilet.)

He made his way out and half-collapsed into bed, exhausted despite the earlier sleeping. The nurses brought in more soup and he devoured it just as greedily as he had earlier in the day, as he was famished and hadn't been able to keep anything in himself long enough to nourish. Avery finished and kissed John gently, almost hesitantly, his lips tasting of egg drop soup, and sighed into John as John felt Avery's erection—which ended with another yelp of pain and violent shutting of his legs. Avery lay shaking in pain, saying nothing for a few minutes before reaching his arm over John's chest and lightly nibbling at his earlobe. "Can't wait to fuck you," he whispered with as much seductive power as his shaking voice could muster. He put his nose into John's shorter hair—Jack must have had it cut—and drifted off into a not unpleasant sleep, breathing deeply onto John's shoulder.

John sighed, wondering why no part of Sherlock could feel love. The strongest feeling was lust, and even though he knew it couldn't help it, it stung. Eventually he dropped off to sleep.

When he woke up in the morning, it was only because Avery was kissing his neck with a slight giggle. "Mmf. Morning." He groaned. "You feel any better?" He looked at Avery, who was much paler than usual. "I'll order you some food, maybe? You don't look too good."

"I don't feel so well," Avery muttered as he stroked John's collarbone. "But after today, I'll start getting b—" He shut his mouth and eyes, spasming slightly, and vomited into his mouth before grimacing as he swallowed it down again. "But I feel better in your arms." He wrapped his arms around John and dozed off again, foul breath on John's neck. He stirred again, half an hour later, and rolled over. The sweating was still profuse, and he planted a kiss on John's forehead before padding off to take a shower. Avery had no intentions of standing, just to sit in the water as it cleansed him. But before long, he began composing aloud, not feeling obligated to write it down, and laying back and singing wordlessly as the water poured over him, making him feel a little bit better.

There was a knock on the door, and John answered but did not let his guest inside. It was Dr. Jenkins. "How is he? I know he's not exactly willing to have guests right now. I…" He stroked his chin with a sigh. "I wanted to let you know that as of today, a diagnosis of schizophrenia is…applicable. And I thought, as his caretaker, you should know." He looked into the room and continued. "I can come back at a better time, of course, just call when it's okay. I'd like to see how he's doing since he came out of his…spell." He looked quite concerned and waited for an answer.

"I'll ask him. I'll get back to you. Avery is in dominance right now so I'll wait until Sherlock is. It's only fair." John shook his hand and showed him out before going into the bathroom. Avery turned round and smirked. John kissed him on the back of the neck. "Jenkins said you can be diagnosed today, if Sherlock wants. It has to be his choice, though. It is his body." He sighed. "Not that I don't think you're a person, you know I do. I love you."

Avery kissed John slowly, lips trembling. "Good," he said, as if he'd take drastic measures if John hadn't. He pulled away and frowned. "Yes, he was the one born into this body, his name on the paperwork. You're—" He fell over sideways as his leg twitched involuntarily, and for a moment, he looked totally vulnerable, looking up into the eyes of the person who'd caught him. "Working out's doing you good," Avery smirked as he was hoisted back to his feet. He pulled his pants on and sat on the bed. "Yeah, call Jenkins. I'll butt out." His head flopped backwards for a moment before looking back up again.

"Pain less, no wooziness. Been out some time," Sherlock stated. John explained the situation and Sherlock nodded. "I already know what the answer will be," a bitter grimness tingeing his words. "But I suppose it needs to be made official."

When Jenkins arrived, Sherlock had moved to the armchair, with a bin handy in case he threw up. John showed him in, and Sherlock was amused to note that Jenkins was using an identical notepad to those used by Lestrade and Donovan. "Ex-police psychologist," he muttered, prompting a smile.

"Yes, for fifteen years," Jenkins grinned. "Now I'm going to ask a few true or false questions. You know the drill, so I won't bore you, but I have to make sure the symptoms are the same."

"I'll save you time—they've gotten worse." Sherlock took a deep breath. "Hallucinations growing more distressing, more voices added to the mix, having to fight paranoia, suicidal tendencies, delusions caused by distorted memories of traumatic events." He looked at John for an instant but did not meet his gaze.

"Um…" Jenkins wrote all of this down. "Well…it sounds like schizoaffective disorder rather than outright schizophrenia." Sherlock sighed in apparent relief.

"But schizoaffective is still part of the schizophrenia spectrum and its diagnostic criteria are under review."

Jenkins sighed sadly. This was one of the dangers of the amateur researching a field for relatively little time. "Yes. And some of the criteria of schizoaffective don't apply, while some do. Since, as you say, the diagnostics are iffy, I'll…have to make schizophrenia official." Sherlock shut his eyes and inhaled sharply. "I'm sor—"

"Leave," Sherlock half- snapped. "Now." Jenkins nodded and shot John a look of _Keep me informed of his condition, please_ before leaving. The instant he'd gone, Sherlock started to break down; first silent tears, then quiet sobbing, and finally he was on the verge of hysterics and trying to keep it down, resulting in a miserable choking sound as he sank as far into the chair as he could manage.

John hugged him and sang to him again, trying his best to make him feel better. "Come on, it's alright. I.. I don't know why you're upset, did I miss something?" Sherlock kept his head down, sobbing still. "Please? I'm confused. I need to know whats wrong." He planted a kiss on the top of his head and sat down next to the chair. He slid his hand into Sherlocks with a sigh. "Please."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, taking a deep if snotty breath, and when he spoke, it was very rapid, almost rambling. "I'm—I'm broken, I've seen it, in my own family, even, and s…people like me live ten to fifteen years shorter, it's harder to get rid of addictions, there's even statistics saying that more—" He gulped. "More people with my condition have trouble with nicotine and cocaine, specifically named in the study." He took another wracking set of hysterical sobs and it turned into vomiting into his bin. "I've seen, in my work, people who, ten years prior, looked boring, normal, but after it went wrong, they lost the ability to take care of themselves, they didn't shower, they didn't shave, they lost what little social contact they have, they—" He groaned and retched before leaning forward and out of his chair, into John, half-collapsed and in an apparent painful daze. If John were to lean away, Sherlock would fall out of the chair entirely. "Promise me you won't let me degrade like that. Promise I'll grow old and weak and feeble and ramble about beekeeping over boiled eggs and toast and you'll look up through your bifocals and smile cluelessly but lovingly, and if I'm seventy and the voices overwhelm me, you'll hold my head, squeeze it gently because that helps them go away." Sherlock's voice was weak, his arms limp, and his head was into John's chest, listening to John's heartbeat. "Or if Avery breaks our leg because he was too rash, you'll make sure we don't use it until it heals. And if I'm eighty, somehow, and Liam wants to hold your hand to go to the field for the last time, promise you'll go and kiss my last breath from me."

"You don't even need to ask. I promise." He kissed him on the cheek with a smile. "I'll look after you for the rest of your life if I need to, because I love you." He picked Sherlock up who had gone limp in the chair and put him in bed. He got in with him, putting his arm behind his head to support him and looked at him in the eyes. "When we get you out of here, we'll go for a day out somewhere. Maybe the forest? Or a picnic or something? Up to you. Just something we can do together that doesn't involve staying in the house, or a hospital." Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Now, do you want anything to eat or drink? Maybe watch some telly?"

"L…Liam wants to go to the funfair." Sherlock forced a grin, but it looked more of a grimace. "Avery…well, you know." Sherlock sighed shakily and choked as he chuckled. "I'm so tired, John. So, so tired. I just want to sleep, but I can't, not with the pain and nightmares. I…I'm fighting myself." He seemed to drift off for a second before opening his eyes again. "I'll try eating again, I need to, and I want you to read to me until I drift off." Sherlock looked pitifully frail and yelped again, curling into the foetal position, protecting his groin as it uncontrollably and painfully ejaculated. He gasped, sweating for a few minutes as John stroked his hair. "Specific book. _Secrets of the Sand_. Clare Chevalier. Crime novel. As for dinner, I don't care as long as it's not halibut."

"Alright. I'll ask the nurse to bring something up now, maybe some meat and potatoes? You need protein and all the rest of it." Sherlock grimaced and nodded. While John called the nurse, he noticed Sherlock was eyeing up the chess piece on the bed side table, trying to deduce it.

After he'd eaten, John read to him. Sherlock watched him the whole time, almost as if it was helping him drop off to sleep knowing John was there. When he dropped off, this time, without sedation, he snored softly and mumbled in his sleep; John guessed it was Avery and Liams dreams.

Liam was wandering through Baskerville in the night, in the semi-dark. He heard the growling of the Hound behind him and broke into a run, bare feet padding around the laboratory, looking for a hiding place. He hid inside the cabinet of a metal workbench and hoped the Hound wasn't coming for him. But he heard it sniffing around for him, heard it looking for him. And he was just the right size for a small meal. He was shaking and threw his hands into his armpits to keep from accidentally knocking something over, and the cabinet stank of formaldehyde, making it hard to breathe. The door bumped, as if the Hound was trying to open it, but then a single gunshot rang out, causing Liam to scream and the Hound to fall to the ground with a thud. The door opened, the lights having come on again. John pulled him from the cabinet, and Liam couldn't help but look at the body. The Hound wasn't the Hound at all. It was Sherlock's father. He pulled himself closer to John, in tears, and awoke with a "Thank you."

But he was still thinking about his father, and as he hadn't had his medication in some time, he saw him standing beside the bed, bathed in the light from the clock, the only source of illumination in the dark room. "I always said you'd amount to this," his frowning father sneered. "An addict, writhing in your bed, defecating and vomiting on yourself, a waste of the food they're trying to force in you and the bed you're laying in."

"Noooo," Liam whined and curled up, burying his head in John's side, shaking, terrified. He put his hands to his ears, but of course it didn't help. The endless hate kept on.

"Don't make excuses. What good are you? Even the small number of cases you've had, you can't finish because you're too weak-minded." His father reached down and spat in his face. "A waste of amino acids. Mycroft should never have picked you up off the streets when I kicked you out. Natural selection should have weeded you out." He sneered and stood up. "You're not even forty and you're more pathetic than my mother when she was ninety. She at least had a spark of life in her, and you can't even kill yourself properly. And when you don't want to die, you want to suck blood, or you're a mewling child in an adult body, or you're lawless filth who thinks the only way to get anything is violence or sex. You're hateful. I wish I'd said no to your mother the night you were conceived. I don't know why I gave you my name. You don't deserve to be a Holmes. Holmeses are intelligent. They aren't mentally ill drug addicts with a death wish and delusions of being a vampire pirate."

"Nnnh, Fathhher. Stop." But the torrent of abuse kept coming, everything that his father said or Liam knew he would have said. "John," he moaned, his eyes shut and streaming. "Help me, please, Father is being angry, he's hurting me with words, I can't make him stop," he finished, with an unceremonious glorp and defecation.

The nurses had overheard Liams screams and asked John to leave the room. Liam screamed for him, until he was cleaned up and sedated. John decided it was best to go for a walk.

_Call me when you can? Sherlocks not getting any better._

_-John_

He sent the text to Zap before going back inside, to get himself a coffee. When he returned upstairs, Liam was sleeping. John put the tv on before noticing that there was somebody in the bathroom. Instinctively, he picked up a large object— which turned out to be a golden clock from the bed side table, before going into the room.

When the light switched on, he took a blind swing before a strong arm countered. It was Mycroft who put one finger to his lips. "I had to see him," he said. "He had requested that I not be allowed, but the reports were not doing enough to satisfy that he was being looked after properly. I…wormed my way in during the confusion." He switched the light off and looked sadly at Liam, who was now sucking his thumb. In the confined space, it was easy to smell the alcohol on Mycroft's breath. "I've read his psychological report." It was clear that Mycroft was extremely distressed. "I'll be leaving shortly—he'll wake in an hour or so and I intend to stay for the next fifteen minutes." He belched slightly. "Pardon me," he said with his mouth covered.

He walked into the suite area's living area and sat in the chair, handing a folder to John and speaking very softly. "Now that there's a diagnosis, and with the severity of his condition, he'll need someone to look after him at home. I know you will do it, but legally speaking, you haven't the training." He opened the folder and showed it. "As his next-of-kin, I'm…authorizing you to participate in an expedited home care course." Mycroft looked at the bed as Liam's thumb-sucking grew louder and he made a question-mark grunt as his other hand reached to the other side of the bed where John wasn't. "You'll have to complete the course and a few tests, but I'm confident that you'll be able to pass the test with flying colours." John looked speechless. "I'll continue with your current payrate, and I know what you're going to say, you're not doing it for the money, but considering your current unemployment and Sherlock's less-than-steady income, you need it. I've already discussed it with him via text message, and he has agreed." He slid the rest of the paperwork forward.

John sighed and tapped his hand on the papers. "I love him. I don't want him to think I'm staying for a paycheck. He means so much more than any price you want to fix." Mycroft sighed himself, and reminded him that he was without a job. "I know I have no job, but when Sherlock _does_ work we get enough money to keep us fed, and I have some money in the bank. Please understand that I want to be here because I care, and not for money. I refused to take it when we first met, and I refuse to take it now."

Mycroft sighed. "You still need to fill out the paperwork and take the course. Otherwise you can't legally look after him." He looked at the bed where Liam was beginning to stir, reaching out again, his thumb sliding out of his mouth slightly and grunting. "I'd best be on my way. I implore you to reconsider the financial benefits as both Sherlock and I encourage you to take the money for everyone's sake." He shut the door behind him quietly.

Liam opened his eyes and smiled as the sedation had left him very happy. "Hll, Jn." He giggled and took his drool-covered thumb from his mouth. "Hello, John, I love you." He stretched weakly and beckoned for John to join him. "I was a merman. You were an angel because you are. The water was smooth and calm. We floated. You were in the air just above the water and you skimmed the surface of the sea. I was just below the waves and I kissed the water's surface. I smiled at you and you smiled back and we held hands and we were very happy, the angel and the merman." He smiled softly and pulled John down and kissed him on the eyelids. "Please be happy, angel, I love you. Can I keep floating? I am happy and gentle."

John nodded. "I love you too. Do you think I should take money to look after you?" Liam giggled and carried on talking about the ocean. "Seriously, do you?" Liams expression changed into a harder one, indicating that Avery was taking hold. "Somebody, just tell me what I should do?" He signed the paper and left the box saying _accept payment_ blank. "So? Help me?"

"Altruism is idiocy, John," Avery said. He smirked as he continued. "If you're good at something, never do it for free." He reached over and kissed John gently. "And boy, are you good. In many ways." Goosebumps ran down him as he shivered—while lessening, the withdrawal symptoms were still rather nasty. "Besides, Sherlock wants it. It was Mycroft's idea, but they talked it over via text and it was mutual. I don't think Liam cares about money. And I know you love me, though I am still pretty pissed at what Jack said, that you don't love me as much as you implied you do." Avery flopped back down as the sedation was wearing off. "Need my meds before the hallucinations come back. Feel them tickling at my head." He rubbed his head. "And black pudding and a glass of milk for breakfast. Protein. Iron. Calcium." He lifted John's hand and kissed it tenderly.

John frowned. "Do you miss Jack?" Avery returned the same look. "I know you'd probably prefer it if he was here, I think I would, too. He'd look after you much better than me, I think, plus he probably knows how to love better." He sighed and picked up the phone to call the nurse.

When the nurse arrived, John opened the window and looked out at the gardens. Moriarty was casually outside, talking to a patient. He looked up and winked, waving his hand. John groaned and shut the window. "Please don't let anybody in," He said to the nurse with a raised eyebrow. "I mean, not one person. Unless it's Mycroft Holmes."

"_Not even_ if it's Mycroft Holmes," Avery added angrily. He stared at the food and his pills nervously. "Damn it. I don't know if he's tainted them." He shoved it aside and shook his head. "I guess if I'm not going to be eating, I may as well work on my physical strennnngth," he ended with a pained moan, squirming. "Getting better." Avery shifted himself to the edge of the bed and weakly stood up, making a few steps before falling down. He caught himself, but grunted. "I have to walk. I have to run, if necessary."

He kept trying, but eventually flopped into the armchair and shut his eyes. "I won't lie. I do miss Jack. I care for you both equally, I think, in somewhat different ways. What I feel for you in terms of…well, I guess, love, that I didn't feel for him, I guess I made up for with libido." Avery tilted his head, trying to figure out how to explain it. "As if, for you, my attraction is eighty per cent sexual, fifteen per cent intellectual, and five per cent romance. Well, more of a ninety, seven, three split, if I'm honest. But for him it was more ninety-seven, three, zero." He looked suddenly uncomfortable, even sad, and when he spoke again, it was quietly. "He said…you don't care about me as much as you do Sherlock." When Avery met John's eyes, it was almost like he was looking for approval. "How…_do_ you care?"

John said in a very quiet voice: "You might as well not love me at all, then. Three percent isn't love. It's pure lust." He went back over to the window so he could smoke out of it— he'd brought Averys spare cigarettes. Avery didn't say anything while John smoked, though he could feel eyes staring into the back of his head. "You don't love either of us, so don't say you do. I love you much more than three percent. Much more."

Avery's voice was actually shaking while somehow cold. "Then you don't understand me." He swallowed before continuing. "When I fucked Jack, it was the last thing I wanted right then. I felt like I betrayed you. And the hallucination I had of you vanished. He was upset—you were upset. I wanted to castrate myself for being such an idiot. For doing that. For not staying true to _you_. I wouldn't kill in Jack's name. I sure as hell wouldn't do it for Mycroft or Zap or Natalia or anyone but you and Sherlock, and I'm not even sure about him any more. It's _you_, John, it's always ever been you, and I'm sorry you can't believe that." He stood, as shaky as a newborn giraffe, and managed to go into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower and sat inside it, fully clothed, sobbing.

He looked up, five minutes later, and Jack was standing there beside the tub. Avery knew it was a hallucination, but he didn't care. "Get the fuck away from me."

_You've alienated him again._

"I said get out, get the _fuck_ out of my head, get the fuck out of _his_ head, just…stop." Avery put his hands to his temples and tried to calm himself, but it wasn't working. His stomach was churning again and his back was spasming to the point where only the foetal position was comfortable.

_I'm just like you, Avery, I'm here for good._

Avery gasped with agony as he stood and soppily marched out of the bathroom, throwing his arms around John and kissing him passionately. Jack watched.

_Right. That won't help. That's only going to prove it's just lust._

"John," Avery whispered breathlessly around John's mouth. "John, I have no heart. Just a spot in my chest with your name carved in it." He threw him onto the bed, John obviously somewhat hesitant at having a soaking-wet, fully-clothed Avery on top of him, now ripping open both of their shirts. "Listen, stop fighting me. It's not sex." He lay on top of John, slightly off-centre, and John could feel Avery's frantic heartbeat against his own less-agitated one. "Hearts. Together. You…and I." Avery wrapped his arms and legs around John's in a platonic, desperate embrace. "I do love you. And I lust after you, yes, more than anything. But _you_." John opened his mouth, but Avery responded by covering it with his own. "Shh," he whispered. "Just…shh." He was starting to shiver. "I need you to make Jack stay in the shadows forever. I'd rather have you." He squeezed tighter, his wet clothing squelching and forcing cold water to run down into John's clothing.

"I can't make him stay away. Moriarty told me that he could come back at any time, and if he does, he'll want you. He loves you, entirely. More than me, or maybe it's lust. I don't know." He stroked Averys hair out of his face before kissing him again. "I'm sorry for acting like an idiot. I _do _love you, I don't know how much. I know that I love Sherlock more because we had four years together.. and to be honest I loved him when we first met and I knew how brilliant he was. You understand that, too."

_Sap._

Avery gave his hallucination the finger before kissing John again. "I…I think so. I've been utterly dedicated to you since I began." He noticed John was giving him an odd look. "Oh. I was…Jack's standing there. Like you were when you'd left. But you were…well, you were an angel, to be honest. Like Liam sees." He stroked John's cheek, his hair dripping into John's eyes. He grunted and convulsed, his back in horrible pain before rolling off John, now shivering freely. He stared at the ceiling for a moment.

"Starving. And freezing—what's been going on? Last I remember, you were reading to me. Don't even remember being Liam, if I have been him." Sherlock was irritated at his blanking out, but was pretending to be used to it as he guzzled the now-cold breakfast that had been brought up. "Black pudding," he said around a mouthful of the stuff. "Good thinking." He ate the rest of his meal (and some of John's), taking his medicine, and waited for John's explanation.

John tried to think of what to say. Mycroft had mentioned something about higher security in this place; something about only trusting those whom he had employed. This put Johns mind at rest a bit, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't be under the influence of any other drugs whilst he was withdrawing.

As he went on to explain everything, Sherlock went to run himself a bath, staggering over to the bathroom. John went and washed his back and hair for him, since Sherlock started to feel far too weak to look after himself. "I signed the papers." John muttered quietly. "Like you wanted, like I wanted. The money means nothing you know, I only want to look after you."

Sherlock smiled weakly, but there was definite melancholy in his eyes. "The money means a lot to me, John. It's the only way _I_ can look after _you_. I just wish it were my money and not Mycroft's." He flinched as the sprayer rinsed his hair. "High-sensory day," he said. "Sensitivity to pain heightened. I'll be fine in a bit. Tonight. Maybe." His stomach growled loudly. "I'm starving, though, still." He drew back as John tried to wipe an errant sud from his cupid's bow area, cupping his hand over Sherlock's mouth by accident. "Don't—" Sherlock shoved John's hand away insistently, eyes snapping to John's, a curious mixture of fear and anger in them—a similar if more mild look to the one he gave Moriarty. He took a deep breath as he lowered his arm and broke eye contact. "I'm sorry, I…how much do you remember about being Jack? What do you remember of what he did?"

"I don't remember anything about it. Why?" Sherlock grimaced. "I'm guessing he was using your riding crop, you have welts on your back." He looked at the marks (which had faded quite a bit) with a guilty feeling. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could have stopped it, but you know I had no control. Avery and Jack have certain… _kinks_, and they don't worry about the effects it'll have on us." Sherlock didn't respond. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I understand if you never want me to touch you again."

"It wasn't your fault. My reaction was completely involuntary." Sherlock frowned and rinsed as much of himself as he could before getting out and weakly wrapping himself with a towel before walking to the sink and lathering up. "Jack and Avery…I don't know, it…I came to in the middle of sex and I was—" He gulped, finding it more difficult to tell John about this than he expected, and he stared into the water, holding the razor, knowing he was probably too unsteady to shave at the moment. "I was handcuffed to the bed, I was being hit with the crop, I was naked, I was…on bottom, the person engaging in intercourse with me looked like you but, for all intensive purposes, wasn't you, he was cruel. Violently passionate." He lifted it to his face and drew one stroke before breaking off. "I felt as though I was being vio…it was Moran all over again. But worse. Infinitely worse. Your body. Your knowledge of my physical weaknesses." John sat down on the toilet lid as Sherlock fell silent, shakily shaving and managing for the most part not to cut himself. "That was highly traumatic for me. I have no way of telling if it was, as Jack said, consenting. You don't remember and I can't ask Avery—trusting Jack's word is out of the question. Given the conditions of the sex, I doubt it. It was too much like what happened in the warehouse and because of that, I would have said no. Avery, I don't know. But the way I woke, the timing, the positions, the restraints, everything, I feel like he's _ra_—" He nicked his Adam's Apple, the last bit left to shave, and bit his lip with a sharp inhalation. "But when Jack—when he muzzled Liam, he left and took the key. I don't know where you went—where he went, but I was left muzzled for three days before Mycroft found me." He rinsed his face and froze. "I—I don't remember much. I remember…" Sherlock stood with eyes closed and head tilted, digging into his memories. "I remember filth. I remember hiding. I remember…I panicked, I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink, I couldn't take my medication. I was in a very dark place. The hallucinations were horrible, violent, and the only thing keeping me together, if only just, was a hallucination I had of you, as an angel, standing beside me, holding me, fighting off the other phantasms." He rinsed his face again, and took a deep breath. "I remember Mycroft had a knife. Avery's knife. I…I just remember feeling lost. Hopeless. Betrayed. I was at the point where I couldn't distinguish you and Jack, I felt as though you'd left." Sherlock's knees buckled and he started rambling, voice cracked and clearly on the verge of tears. "And then I saw myself, shattered, I was too weak to move, too broken in my mind, I couldn't feel time passing in the normal way, I didn't know if it had been days or years since Jack did what he did, I didn't know how long I'd spent in my old childhood bed, in adult diapers, starving, in pain, the morphine turning everything to mush, the hallucinations of Avery's victims constantly taunting me, the violin in my head driving me mad, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't, except under heavy sedation, and when I did, I had nightmares, horrible nightmares, Jack murdering you, Jack raping me constantly and with whips and chains and handcuffs, you laughing that I ever believed I cared, you revealing that John was the fake and Jack was the real you, the you I never saw because Afghanistan literally changed you and Moriarty restored you, and so I refused to eat in the hopes that I'd die a death that wouldn't cast suspicion on my caretakers, but Liam ate, he didn't speak, but he let them pour baby food into his mouth, and I tried to use the morphine, but Mycroft foiled that, and thank goodness he did because I was stupid, I was selfish, I didn't think about the chance I might actually see you again, I thought death was better than continuing the way I was, but I was wrong, I saw you, you healed me again, I'm so, so sorry, none of this is your fault, it's Moriarty's, and even though part of me feels like you've raped me—that _Jack_ raped me, I know it's the past, something I can't change. Something best forgotten, yet something I'm unable to forget." John kneeled down and put his arms around Sherlock, and Sherlock wholeheartedly returned the embrace. "I shouldn't have told you. But I suppose not knowing would have been worse." He held John tightly, not wanting to let go.

"I want to go home. I can legally discharge you now, if you want. We could go home, and lie in bed all day, watching films, or we could go for walks when you get a bit better? I could take Liam to the park, or get you cases, and maybe work out how to bring Jack back for an hour or two for Avery. I just don't want to be here anymore, and I know you don't. I'm getting sick of looking at these four walls all day every day." He kissed Sherlock on the cheek before quickly pulling away to sit back down. "We won't be at any risk there. Home. Don't you miss it?"

Sherlock clenched his fist around John's shirt at the thought of bringing Jack back, even for an hour. "No, don't, he won't want—he's too much like Avery, he wouldn't relinquish control, not willingly." He realized he was panicking and took a deep breath. "But yes, I want to go home, I want to sleep in my own bed, or on the sofa, you nearby. I want to be able to relax." He lowered his head to John's shoulder. "Yes. Home."

He dressed himself while John fetched the paperwork, but there was a stipulation that he attend at least one more meeting on the following Tuesday, and when John returned to the room, Sherlock seemed to be in some sort of trance, sitting on the bed, one arm in his suit jacket and the other out of it. His eyes seemed empty, as if he were lost in a dark place in his mind, and John grabbed his hands, but Sherlock was still unresponsive. John called his name, as well as Avery and Liam, but there was still no answer, still no sign of Sherlock being inside his head. John tried for at least ten minutes to get Sherlock to pay attention, and nothing was working at all, not a kiss, not pleading, nothing. Just as John was about to call for someone, Sherlock blinked rapidly. "I…" He shook his head and pressed the bridge of his nose as if clearing a headache. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened. I'm fine now." _ I think._ "Hungry, though. Famished." He wormed his jacketless arm out of John's hand and into his suit, and rose, buttoning it. "Don't care where we go as long as there are enough people that a minor incident would be overlooked. Angelo's is too small."

"It's up to you, you pick somewhere." John mumbled, looking away from him. "I want Avery to see Jack again. He needs to, I think. He needs to work out his feelings. I know you don't understand, and I don't know, maybe its him making me say this, but I think it'll be good for both of them." He walked off to call a taxi for them.

When it arrived they dropped their bags off at Baker street first, Sherlock refused to go in before he'd had something to eat. They got back into the taxi after a greeting from Mrs Hudson. "Right. You choose where to eat."

Sherlock picked the most popular restaurant in the city, and they got a table in the corner—Sherlock didn't want to be seen if he had a fit, but he wanted enough people around that if something did happen, he would be lost in the babble and no one would notice. His leg kicked out as he ordered his meal ("Steak, well-done, boiled potatoes, and asparagus."), but fortunately missed John's shin by millimetres. He put his head in his hands for a few seconds after the waiter left before sitting up. "Can't wait to sleep. Really sleep." He looked at John, examining him carefully. "You look pale. You alright? I know I'm a selfish person by nature. I've been demanding too much of you. You're probably just as tired as I am." Sherlock lowered his emotional guard for a brief instant and reached across the table, taking John's hand gently. "I'm concerned for your well-being, too. I need to know, John, without a lie, without hesitation—are you alright?"

"Not really, but I will be. Maybe when we get home I will. I need to sleep, I've been watching you sleep for days, just in case anything happened." John looked down himself noticing that he'd lost quite a lot of weight. "And I forgot about food." When his food arrived he scoffed it down fast and swigged his water. "I feel a bit better. Hurry up and eat that and we'll go home. I need to shower and sleep, and you need more meds." He reached over and held his hand with a small smile. "I think it's all going to be okay from here on."

Sherlock snorted indignantly. "Okay is subjective." He sighed wearily and took a large bite of potato. "But yes, I think we'll be better, to be certain." He rummaged around in his pockets and took out his pills before downing them with his lemonade. He grimaced and patted his chest before smirking. "See? I'd have forgotten to take them if you hadn't been here to remind me." He tilted his head, chewing the last bite of asparagus thoughtfully as John paid the bill. "I have a treat for you for dessert. I've had Mrs. Hudson pick the ingredients up." There was a mischievous twinkle in Sherlock's eyes, and John didn't ask any questions—it was obvious this was a surprise.

He said nothing on the way back to Baker Street, watching John, marvelling at his amazing persistence during the whole nightmarish affair, and realizing how lucky he was to have a friend that would be there for him, someone who would actually miss him if he were gone. It was something he'd never thought about before, not really. Maybe that's one of the things he liked most about John—his absolute selflessness. "Guardian angel," he muttered softly. And then he realized that John was snoring quietly, deeply asleep in the back of the cab. Sherlock smiled.

"We're here," was the next thing Sherlock said, and he noted with endearment the way John blinked sleepily, half-disorientated. "Home. We're home." John stretched and staggered from the car, helping Sherlock up the steps after receiving a hug from Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock turned John around as he tiredly headed for the shower, and put him in his chair. He had to walk to the kitchen rather slowly, but he made it and began to work on serving his treat. He placed a wafer of honeycomb in the bottom of the bowl, topped it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and poured honey on top of it. He presented it to John, shaking him awake again. "Something Mycroft and I had as children every summer. Grand-père kept bees and Grand-mère made ice cream. This isn't home-made, but it's the closest I can get." He waited for John to take a bite before he did anything else.

John ate it and smiled. "It's lovely, thank you." Sherlock sighed with relief and ate his own. When John had finished he yawned and went to brush his teeth before going into his bedroom. "You coming to bed?" He gestured to his room to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and followed him into the room; both of them flopping onto the bed with exhaustion. "mmnight Sherlock." John mumbled into the pillow, putting one arm around him as he dropped off very quickly.


	16. Three Days

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock's met his own. It was clear he'd been awake for some time, and it was clear from the look of perpetual wonder that it was Liam cuddling him. It was well after the dawn, and they'd both slept well, even without their usual sleep aids.

"Good afternoon, sleepy John," Liam said with an enormous yawn. "We slept until after eleven and then you slept more and now it's almost one. I've been watching you sleep. I like watching you sleep. You're soft and more angely when your head is being nice." He squished himself closer, one hand on the M on John's heart. "I love you. I love you a lot." He yawned again, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy child and then examining John carefully and hopefully. "Are you happy today?" Liam nuzzled in, absentmindedly drawing circles in John's chest hairs with his finger. "I like it when you are happy. It makes me happy, too."

"I suppose." John stretched. "I'd like to go out today and do something fun. If you feel better. Do you feel better?" Liam nodded excitedly. John thought for a few minutes before suggesting the fun fair. Liam nodded and jumped out of bed clapping his hands. "Breakfast first though, then a shower, then get ready, obviously. Go!"

Liam took it, as intended, much like a game—racing into the living room, half-falling down the stairs because of his weak legs, tumbling into his chair in the dining area and beaming when John arrived. His eyes went wide when he saw the leftover honeycomb and grabbed for it, breaking half off and handing it to John. "Honeycomb is yummy for breakfast," he spattered, speaking with a full mouth as John made the rest of their breakfast, knowing they'd both need protein. John handed him a napkin and Liam wiped his mouth with a giggle. "I feel very happy today. And I think Avery and Sherlock are sleeping still or if they're awake they're going to let us be hap—" He closed his eyes and tilted his head for a few seconds. "Mm-hmm," he eventually said. "Yay!" His eyes snapped open and he hugged John. "They're going to let us be happy and to just watch today, they promised not to wake up!" He held John's hand with sticky, honey-covered fingers. "Our day!" He seemed to be the happiest John could remember having seen him, grinning broadly and looking for all the world like he was fighting blissful giggles.

John smiled. "Eat this and go and get ready. And before you ask, you can't take Hamish, because you'll lose him." Liam went to suggest something else- "Or Louis. And you have to behave yourself." Liam grimaced before eating his full English breakfast and padding off to the bathroom.

Whilst Liam got ready, John decided to look for new medical equipment online. He'd noticed that Mycroft had given him the money even though he hadn't asked for it, so he'd decided to put it to _some_ use.

When Liam galloped out of the bedroom, John himself went to get ready. When he returned, Liam was waiting by the door, with Louis in his arms, ready to go.

"I'm ready!" Liam was still grinning, clearly happy, squeezing Louis lovingly. The cat looked a bit confused, wondering why he was headed toward the door, and meowed when Liam hugged him a little too tightly. "But okay, I will put Louis down…he would probably get scared of the noise anyway…" He put Louis on the coffee table and petted him, nudging him with his own nose and making purring sounds. "That's cat for I love you," he explained. He grabbed John's arm and went down the stairs, into the cab John had called ahead for. Liam put his head against John's shoulder and fiddled with the edges of his t-shirt. He looked a little melancholy, and John asked him to explain. "I'm so happy, John. I've always wanted to go to a funfair, always always, but I never got to go when I was small. Father said it was a waste of money and brain, and Mother was too busy with her books, and My wasn't old enough to take me. Then when My asked if I wanted to go before he left for university, I lied and said I didn't because I was a teenager and funfairs aren't for teenagers. But I still wanted to go." He had drifted into mumbling, and now he took John's hand. "But now I get to go with my favourite person who isn't My. But maybe I love you more than I love him. I don't know. I think I love you the same amount but in different ways. And I love you a lot and I'm glad I get to have today with you and only you doing something I hope will be fun."

"Let's go." John beamed, taking his hand as they walked out of the front door. They got into a taxi as usual and asked for the driver to take them to the fair that had recently set up in the local park.

When they got there, Liam jumped out of the cab before he had properly pulled up and he ran over to the entrance, skipping on the spot when he got near the ticket seller. John payed the taxi driver and went to buy their tickets. Before the money had left his hand, Liam was already by the ice cream stand, eyes gleaming with awe. "Right. We'll go on the rides first. We don't want you to be sick."

"Okay!" Liam grabbed John's hand and ran for a mini-roller coaster, leaving John struggling to keep up. He stood in the line, bouncing up and down impatiently as they waited. "I'm excited, sort of good-scared." They got to the ride itself and strapped themselves in, at which Liam tensed slightly, but he managed to grab John's hand and the tenseness transformed from fear to excitement. The ride took off, taking him up the hill, and Liam squirmed. "I don't think I want to be on here anymore, John," he whispered, his hands shaking, seeing the height they were at. "I'm sc—" He didn't get to finish as the ride swooped down into a loop. At first, Liam yelped with terror, but by the end, he was laughing. The ride came to an end and they sat as they waited for the carriage to come back to the start. "That was fun! I was scared at first but then it got really fun!" Liam tried to clap excitedly, but his arms couldn't reach one another. "I've never done that before!"

"Not even when Sherlock was young?" John held his hand shakily. He'd never been fond of roller coasters, even if they were small. "Shall we go and play in the arcade?" He pointed over to a small hut.

When they got inside, Liam demanded some teddies. "You have to win them, though." Liam still insisted. It took John about 15 tries to get a large dark brown bear, that was around the same size as Hamish. "Here." John shoved the teddy in his direction. "I'm not trying for more, that was ridiculous. More rides?"

"Nuh-uh, I wanna try." Liam fished in his pockets for loose money and flopped a handful of coins on the table. He picked up the ball and focused on the pile of blocks, squinting and tilting his head. The man behind the counter was giving him a strange look, but Liam didn't pay it any attention. Liam took a deep breath and threw it hard, but not as hard as instincts would tell you to throw it—and knocked every single block off the plinth. He beamed and pointed excitedly at a large black toy cat, more or less the same size as Hamish, and when the man got it down for him, Liam kissed its head and handed it to John. "For you." He smiled sweetly. "Because you're my best friend ever and I love you. And because it's a kitty."

"Thank you, Liam." John kissed him on the cheek and Liam grinned. "Okay, so what do you want to do next? We'll get ice cream last, so you don't get sick, like I said before. We know what happens when you eat ice cream and jump about." They walked out of the arcade, and came up to a large Ferris wheel. "This? We'll go together." John was scared of heights, but decided not to let it bother him today. Not while Liam was having fun. They stepped into an abnormally small cart and sat down. There were no seat belts, only barred windows. This made John extremely uncomfortable, so he clung onto his seat for dear life.

At first, when the cart started to move, Liam jumped slightly, but he grinned sheepishly, clearly nervous. "I've never done this before," he said in a slightly nervous whisper, taking John's hand off the seat and pressing it into his own. "I'm sort of scared." The cart went higher and higher, stopping every so often to let people on and off, but Liam seemed mostly fine until they got to the top and the cart stopped. "I'm actually a lot scared, this was a bad idea, I don't like this, John, I want to get off now." Liam's hand was shaking and when the cart juddered slightly, he yelped and flung his hands to his head. "I'm scared, I'm very scared, I want to be down on the ground please, I don't like being up high, I'm scared of falling, please I don't want to fall again, please I'm scared, help…" He was plainly trying not to cry, ashen white, rocking slightly, and his body language started to show a potentially dangerous emotional withdrawal. "I want to be off now please, I want fun, this isn't fun, this is _scary_…"

"Well we can't get off until the bottom. Close your eyes or something, hold onto my hand. You can't fall out. We'll be okay." He slid over and put his arms around Liam. "I love you, we'll be fine, I promise."

After what seemed like an eternity, they got back onto the ground. Liam ran out as fast as he could, clinging onto the large brown bear John had won him. "Come on. Do you want to get ice cream and go home?"

"N-no," Liam said. "Ice cream yes but I want to stay a bit longer. I don't want my first time in a funfair to end with me upset." They got him a very large ice cream, and before long he was laughing and giggling again, dragging John to the games where the aim is to squirt water on the target and get the pillar to the top. John won, and at first Liam was perplexed as to why, blinking confusedly before remembering how good of a shot John was. "Oh, you were a solider," he said as he pointed at a prize, insisting John choose a stuffed lion. "Because you're my lion," Liam said, smiling softly.

They kept walking, going on a ride that spins, distorting gravity, and Liam had the confidence to walk on the walls, grinning broadly. When the ride stopped, he staggered out, very dizzy but very happy. "Candy floss! I want green candy floss, John!"

"Okay, calm down. You can have some but we'll have to wait a while before you go on more rides. You're easily sick, remember. And I'm your doctor now." He kissed him on the cheek before going to buy him candy floss.

When he came back, Liam was talking to a lady. Clearly this woman was unaware that in his head he was a child, and not the man he appeared to be. John sat down next to him and held onto his hand, and the woman walked away awkwardly. Liam frowned, confused. "She was trying to flirt with you."

Liam blinked confusedly. "Oh, I thought she was acting kinda funny." He took the candy floss and put his head on John's shoulder, a little sad. "She was sort of pretty, though. Good to look at. Like Natalia. Like the Woman. Like Molly." He sat up. "I should get a present for Molly and for Natalia!" He took a huge bite of the candy floss before running to another game at which he could test his skill. It took a long time, but he got a small white dog from a ring toss game. Liam walked to a try-your-strength game and failed miserably, much to his irritation, but John soon remedied the situation and he wrapped his prize—a large snake—around his neck.

Most of the candy floss was gone by the time he got to the balloon-pop, but he managed accidentally to win two prizes. After a small argument with the stand-keeper, he chose two matching toy monkeys, ones that could be worn with velcro around the neck or waist. "One is for Molly, one is for me. We have matching monkeys."

They continued to walk, now toward bumper cars, Liam's mouth and face growing sticky from the candy floss, and both of them buried in more stuffed animals than Sherlock had owned throughout his entire life. Suddenly he pulled John around to him and kissed him lightly, the sticky sweetness of the candy floss all over his mouth transferring to John's. People stared—they'd been staring anyway at the sight of a thirty-six-year-old acting like a seven-year-old—but it was obvious that Liam shared Sherlock's lack of caring. The kiss was stronger than Sherlock's lip-brush, more sincere than Avery's lustful lip-locking. It was utterly spontaneous and utterly pure. Liam pulled away, blushing furiously, and after a few seconds finally spoke up, if only in a mumble. "This is my favourite day. Ever."

John blinked. "Right, okay." Liam pulled him over to the bumper cars and demanded to go in the same one as John, even though there was no way they'd fit together. In the end he settled for going in a separate one.

"Be careful, put your seat belt on." John was terribly worried. Since the morphine treatment, he had been incredibly frail. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea." The cars had already started up by that point.

"Why?" Liam didn't understand why the bumper cars would injure him and instantly set off following John, cutting him off and crashing into other people. He managed to get on the opposite side and rammed John for all his little car could do, slamming him forward in his seat, and he yelped, sitting still for a moment as he caught his breath. "I'm okay," he said. "I just hurt myself a little."

He was far more cautious from that point on, but the hesitant looks on his face soon melted back into smiles, and before long, grinning—he'd turned it into a sort of race, going around the circle and bumping people as he went around. "It's like my video game!" The cars stopped moving, and their time was up. "Oh."

Liam pulled John away, picking up his toys and moving to a quieter area. The sun was starting to set now, and Liam was obviously tiring out. He yawned broadly. "I'm sleepy," he said, and he definitely looked it. Liam smiled softly at John and reached out to the air behind him. "Your wings are extra bright and soft-looking today. They look very healthy." He took John's hand with his free one and laced fingers. "I love you, angel."

**Liam's blog:**

I am all sleepy now.

Maybe it was because I had so much sugar. I feel likke I'm probably going to fall asleep on the way home in the cab. But that's okay because I knwo John won't forget to wake me up again so I can go inside.

But this has been my vavourite day ever. I'm happy,John's happe, even though I got scared really badly on the Ferris wheel and hurt myself on the bumper cars a little, I think I oike this day ven more than when John and I went ot my field in France.

Avery and SHerlock stayed asleep all day, but I htink they were probably watching. Shelrock lokes it when I'm hapy because it make s him feel better, so today is good for him, too, even if I forgot to take my peills this morning. But I've been fine tosday and I haven' needed them so that's good.

I want to cuddle John and Louis and all my stuffed anoimals tonight. I am happy. I think the word is bliss.

"I love you too. Come on, we should go home now. Have you had your medication? You should probably take half a dosage before you sleep so whoever wakes up tomorrow feels alright."

They went home the usual way— taxi. Liam slumped into Johns bed as soon as he possibly could, after taking half his medicated dose, brushing his teeth and taking off his shoes. His teddies were surrounding him and he snored softly. John smiled and watched him for a while, before going to ask Lestrade if there was any more information on the previous case Sherlock had worked on, or in fact, a new one.

"There's been another body a couple of days ago," Lestrade said. "A man missing a liver, same as before, and he was right, there were traces of kitchen knife-grade titanium in the arms where his hands used to be, but not in the torso. Got the autopsy in, when he's ready to see it." There was a long pause. "I don't want to rush him, though. I'm worried about him, John. All this stuff with Moriarty…I've had to snap at some of my officers for badmouthing Sherlock because they don't know what happened to him. He's my friend, too, so…I guess just keep me up to speed."

John climbed into bed carefully, and Liam opened his eyes sleepily. "Pretty John face, angel wings, love you," he mumbled before dropping off again. Surrounded by things soft and warm, and happier than he'd ever been, he smiled in his sleep.

He was in liquid light, bobbing about. It was thick, like syrup, and it was warm and glowing, not unlike sunlight. His giggles echoed as he played in the light that, unlike water, would not stick. It pooled like mercury, and he had no trouble breathing it. He merely had to think which direction he wanted to go into and he would be on his way, as if the light itself moved him about. It was the same light that shone from John's wings, the same light that kept Liam safe inside himself when Jack had been cruel. Liam was content just to lay in the light, or sometimes to spin and twirl, making bubble-rings with his mouth.

Sherlock opened his eyes and felt the best he had in a very long time. He basked in the memory of the dream, watching John sleep just as peacefully, wondering what he was dreaming about. Fifteen minutes later, John's eyes opened. "Good morning," Sherlock said. "Sleep well?"

"I did. We can have a day together if you like. Though Lestrade wants you to check the case out as soon as you feel up to it. They've found another body and that." He stretched and smiled at him, already knowing the answer. "Take your meds, have something to eat, and we'll both get ready and go the Scotland yard." Sherlock grinned and jumped out of bed, running to the kitchen table to sit down.

Sherlock smiled all throughout breakfast, softly, remembering the day before. "I'm happy, John. Actually _happy_." He sipped his juice and continued. "I think yesterday was the best medicine I could have had." He poked at his eggs gently until they burst, before swirling them around with his toast. "Like water. Soothing, healing water after Avery's fire." He looked up suddenly. "Waxing philosophical again." Sherlock hummed gently and without noticing as he finished his breakfast, before going to shower. "I…uh…care to join me?" It was clear he didn't mean for sexual reasons, he wanted John's company and comforting touch. "I…I'm not sure if I'm recovered enough yet to be able to wash all of my back." It was a lame cover and he knew it, but it was worth a try.

"I know." They both padded into the bathroom, taking off their clothes when they'd closed the door. John noticed the marks on his back. "I'm sorry." His voice broke slightly as they climbed into the shower. "I'd never do that to you, that wasn't me." Sherlock turned round with a sad look in his eyes, and embraced John. John made sure not to touch the marks on his back and instead he put his arms around his neck and put their foreheads together. "I love you, and I would never hurt you on purpose. I'm beyond sorry."

"Shh," Sherlock said. "Not your fault, no more than that M is mine." He instantly regretted the invitation to shower, realizing that seeing the wounds on his own back would trigger a similar reaction to his own to the scars on John's neck and chest from Sherlock's loss of control. He leaned over, wrapping John in his arms. "I know it wasn't you, I—part of me feels like it was, the broken part, the part that can't distinguish between you and Jack and Moran—" Sherlock realized he was saying more than he ever meant to and shut his mouth. "Let's be happy today. Please. I need that. And tomorrow, it'll be Avery's turn." He poured soap into his hands and into his hair. "I need to work some today. I almost have it, it's right there, I almost have that one solved. Then we can do whatever you want, you and I. Just us."

"Okay. I'll think of something." He kissed him on the cheek as he reached over for the shampoo.

When they were dressed, John fed Louis and watched a bit of morning TV while Sherlock got more information about the case. "Tell me when you want to leave," John yawned, sliding down onto the couch. Sherlock called from downstairs, his cue to leave. "Right." He sighed, grabbing his coat and shutting the door behind him.

"Too many victims, that's always their mistake," Sherlock smiled. "The more victims, the more clues. Serial killers…" He trailed off, frowning, clearly thinking about something unpleasant, in this case, Avery. "Maybe this will provide an epiphany."

They pulled up at Bart's, and Sherlock remembered for once to pay the cab, before darting inside. "Hello, Molly," he said. She smiled, recognizing that he was feeling almost normal, even blushing a little.

"I have the autopsy report here." Molly handed it to Sherlock, and he flicked through it, taking in all the details he could, particularly about the victim's previous location.

"Oh," he said, eyes lighting up. "Oh!" He grabbed Molly by the shoulders. "The more victims, the more pieces of the puzzle fall into place, the more dots with which to triangulate the perpetrator's identity."

"Um—"

"I've looked through file after file of names and dates and places, several common among them, but now, now only one circumstance shines out, there's only one person it can be." Sherlock smiled and took out his mobile, lifting it to his ear. "Lestrade," he said, more excited than he had been in ages. "Meet me at the hospital on the south side. The case is closed." Not waiting for a reply, he ran to the curb and stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for a free cab to come by.

John smiled to himself, knowing that Sherlock would be totally focused on him for the rest of the evening. It felt somewhat selfish, but he felt as if he hadn't had Sherlocks full attention for longer than a half hour period since he cooked the meal for him.

"Well done, that was quite a find." John beamed up at him. "You're back on your feet, by the looks of it. Whatever you want to do tonight, we'll do it. It's up to you, like it was with Liam."

"I want to be there for the arrest. It's the first case I've actually gotten to finish since this started. I need it." Sherlock slid into the cab and gave the address of the hospital. It was clear it wasn't going fast enough for him, and he fidgeted wildly, scratching at his nicotine patch and bouncing his leg. When they arrived, he leapt from the cab and ran in, leaving John behind at first. "Keep up," he commanded.

A woman in her forties was pushing a food trolley, and Sherlock stepped in the way. "Sorry," she mumbled, and tried to move out of the way. Sherlock stayed in the way, moving to intercept.

"Jacob Kent." The two words made the woman go pale. Lestrade came up behind her and watched. "Your son. Died of heart failure because the only transplant donor suitable was in a coma."

"She wasn't using it," she whispered. "Jacob had his whole life ahead of him."

"And you left the surgery because you couldn't stand to follow the rules, to do the same to others."

"Yes," she said, resolve hardening. Lestrade took a step forward, ready to grab her if need be. "There were hundreds of people every year who died because the families of the people in comas wouldn't let me give the dying kids what they needed!"

"So you took it by force. You abducted them. You stole the coma patients in the night and offered the families of the transplant patients some hope. You took the bodies of the comatose home, didn't you, dismembered them, tossed the bodies out." Sherlock didn't need for the woman to agree—he already knew she'd done it. "Sentiment was your undoing." The handcuffs closed around her wrists.

"Miriam Kent, you're under arrest for multiple homicide and violation of medical law." Lestrade took her away, as the woman shouted and swore, but Sherlock smiled, the old smug look of superiority back on his face.

"I'm _back_, John." He was grinning. "I think a celebratory dinner is in order." There was a definite spring in his step as he headed to the entrance. "Angelo's, or would you prefer Chinese?"

"Hm. Angelo's I think. It's been a while since we've been there, he'll be happy to see us." Sherlock grinned again and nearly skipped into the first cab that pulled over.

They got to Angelo's in what seemed like seconds. When they paid for the cab, Angelo came outside to greet them. "Boys! How great to see you. On a date tonight?" John felt himself going red in the face, so he kept his head down. "Your table is free as usual. I'll get you some candles, more romantic." They followed him through the door and sat down.

"Are you going to eat?" John made a feeble attempt at conversation. "You should. You still look incredibly thin."

"Yes. I should." Sherlock ordered a large plate of chicken parmesean, and sipped his water while he waited. "This is good, John. This is very good. I've solved something, I'm not entirely…broken. Mm," he said, taking his pill separator from his pocket, removing the pills, and swallowing them. "I…I feel good, I feel right. They've stayed quiet, it's almost like it never happened, any of it." Almost. There was still the tiny instinct to flinch from John's touch, still a tiny part of him that saw Jack hiding in every little gesture, but for the most part, he could ignore it. Their food arrived and Sherlock dug in eagerly, devouring most of it before speaking again. "I'd forgotten how good it was, feeling like this. I've been in such a dark pit, John. Yesterday, Liam's good mood, your good mood, it soothed me, healed me far more than any medication could." He took another bite of spaghetti and continued. "To be fair, I have to give Avery a day, tomorrow, and I won't pretend I'm not nervous about what he'll do." He took another sip of water, slowly, watching John. "But let's focus on today. It's only late afternoon, there's still plenty of time to enjoy ourselves."

"I don't think he'll want to see Jack after him scarring you like he did. Anyway, it's all up to you what we do today. I know ideally you'd probably like to be in France, but sadly that's not sorted yet. So you name what you want and we'll do that." John sipped the wine he'd ordered for himself and then tucked into his own meal— the usual, chicken korma.

When they had finished, they sat talking for a while about the case. "So, how did you know? I mean, you always know, but I'd like to understand."

Sherlock took a gulp of water before nodding. "She was the only one. When it was just one or two victims, there were dozens of other people who came in contact with the victims. As time went on, the list grew shorter and shorter." He smirked. "Today, it was narrowed down to four, only two of which were surgeons or ex-surgeons, and only one of those had motive. I'd researched all of them thoroughly, and she was the one who fit. And when she tensed as I stood in her way, it was obvious." As usual, when Sherlock explained, it seemed horribly simple. "Fed the fingers to her dog, probably."

Sherlock had ordered his dessert, John had refused any, and Sherlock watched him. "I…I need to say something. I'm not sure it's the best time or place, but as I'm alright, and if I'm not alright when I tell you, I'll be far worse, I figure I should." John stopped chewing the last lingering bites of breadstick as Sherlock fiddled with the corner of his napkin. "There's one thing I'm frightened of more than anything else. More than Moriarty or Moran. More than Avery. More than what I've done. Jack." He grunted slightly before popping one of his emergency sedatives. "With Moriarty, I know my limits. I can hurt him—Avery has, he bit off part of his tongue. I can fight back. With Avery, if he gets too out of control, I can—I know how I can stop him permanently. But not Jack. Because if I hurt him, I'll hurt you. You'll be the one to suffer. You'll be the one in pain if I need to defend myself." He slumped back in his chair, growing distressed. "I'd hesitate, if I did anything." Sherlock's left hand curled into a fist, and he twitched. "He knows that, too. He—" Sherlock raised his hand, beckoning Angelo. "Large glass of wine." Angelo moved off with a smile and a wink, and Sherlock continued. "You saw what he did, the…my back. I told you the rest, I'm not sure if—" Angelo had arrived, and Sherlock nodded a thank you at him. The detective waited for Angelo to face the other way before taking several large gulps of wine and taking a deep breath. His mind was replaying the moment he had come to dominance, bound and being whipped, naked and—in his mind, at least—forced into sex. He guzzled down more wine as his dessert arrived, a slice of cheesecake. Trying not to speak until he was sure he could handle it, he bit at the cake. John was just about to order something for himself when Sherlock slid his cheesecake over. "R'mind me not to drink with m'sedative," he slurred with a weak laugh. "Not s'pposed to. Just…was panicking. Now I'm…fine. Little bit drunk, but fine." He took John's hand and another bite of cheesecake, sliding over to his side and leaning over on him. "'M just scared. Wanna go home. Wanna work. Wanna forget, can't forget. Can't forget anything, not a thing, wish I could, I keep having nightmares, bloody stupid nightmares, wanna get back to what I was, wanna get high, wanna forget."

Sherlock frowned. "Drunker than I thought. More drunk. Whatever." He rubbed his face woozily. "'ll settle for a massage. No, you should read t'me, read the book, read Mother's book. 'll lay on the sofa, thinking, listening." He chuckled and sighed. "Thank you, John, f'r being the best friend a man could have. F'r being mine. My John. My…protector." He was in no danger of losing consciousness, but due to the combination of the alcohol and sedative, he was very inebriated. He would probably need help walking out of the restaurant. "Th'only person I trust c'mpletely. Thank you. Giv'n you my heart b'cause I don't trust m'self with it," he mumbled. He dissolved into further drunken mumbling which grew less and less intelligible, with the exception of John's name, which was repeated every few seconds.

**Sherlock's blog:**

Nto sture I w;lkike thid.s

I'm a little beit dturnk. Onel clagass of red winke.

I'm a lbittel beit high.. Oen prescription sedatoive pill.

Totgetther, I'm very intoxitatted.

Ia'om noyl hatppy liek wearliker, bugt I am realaxed. Nto wqite in adgneer of fallign asleep, but I'm' nto strfeessed at an yhgiknt at all (extept for YMcroft's lecytguring me on substnac abutsl=e.)

TI's good. But I hwoype not yyo repeeat this.

John read to him for a while until he dropped off to sleep. He moved him to his own bed, and then went to tidy up the flat. Mrs Hudson popped up for a cup of tea, and they chatted for a few hours before she remembered that she'd left the iron on and ran home.

John eventually got ready for bed and curled up next to Sherlock. Sherlock was breathing loudly through his mouth, the smell of alcohol making John wince. He moved to behind him, feeling strange as he was much smaller, but finally, he dropped off to sleep, with his head in the nape of Sherlocks neck.

It was a gentle kiss that woke John up from his unusually deep slumber. "Good morning, Doctor Watson," Avery smiled softly. "You sleepwalked again. Went to the living room, sighed at your service medal, muttered about the good old days, came back here." Avery kissed John again and pressed himself closer with obvious sexual intent in a way he hadn't done in months. "Mm." He caressed John's hip slowly before whispering gently. "This is _our_ day. The others aren't even watching. Today is for us…" He moaned gently and pulled his pants down under the blankets, wrapping his arms around John before rolling on top of him, now completely naked, his hands inside John's pants, cold fingers on warm skin. Avery smiled with that lustful grin that bordered on cruel. "Morning shag?"

"Good morning to you too." John stretched and put his arms around him. "Breakfast first. I'm starving. And you need to eat too, you're hungover." Avery sighed, kissed him gently, and rolled off him, pulling his underwear back on.

Avery demanded to cook breakfast for John. "But I looked after Liam on his day, and Sherlock, why can't I do the same for you?" Avery muttered something about dominance whilst he cracked eggs into a pan.

After breakfast, Avery moved the plates before attempting to shove John onto the table with an almost evil glint in his eyes.

"I want you," Avery said. "More than that. I need you, I love you, I _lust_ you." He pushed John over the table and himself into him. "It's been more than a month, John, since I last had you." Avery licked John's neck, sighed, pushing John down, and once again thrust his hands into John's pants and played around as if playing the violin. "You don't understand. How much I need sex. Endorphins, exercise, passion, dedication. You. You." Avery was pinning John to the table with his body, squirming his pants down, kissing up the side of John's neck and breathing into his ear. He removed one hand from John's pants and ran it down his hip, sliding down John's pants and moaning as he rubbed his cock against John's. "Je t'adore," he whispered in his most seductive voice. "And I know you love me."

"I do love you, more than you love me." He whimpered beneath him. "I love you, I love you." He put his arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, allowing him to take control of the situation by letting his legs go limp. Avery pushed them apart and thrust into him, making John wince. "You don't feel the same and I know it." He gasped out as Avery put his hands on his shoulders and dug in his nails. "Admit it."

Avery froze. "Don't talk like that." He seemed extremely hurt. "I love you with everything I have. It isn't my fault I don't have a heart." He kissed John again, passionately, wrapping his long fingers into John's hair, and when the kiss was done, he stared John down, locking ice to steel. "And when you look at him, when your eyes ask why he doesn't tell you he loves you, it kills him. He wants to shrivel up, he wants to die, he feels worthless because it's the one aspect of humanity he can never come close to grasping." Avery grunted and stroked John again, thrusting with an almost angry vigor, and breathing hard. "I fucking love you. I love fucking you. You are my everything, my light, my soul, my all." Avery pressed his lips to John's adam's apple and sucked gently, starting to shake with pleasure. He ran his fingers down John's arms and sighed as John did the same. He thrust again, less angrily, more tenderly, knees starting to ache against the table. Avery laughed freely and lay across John's form, as if trying to merge with him, squirming and holding him tightly. "You are almost perfect, John. Take away your depression, add a pinch of Jack's sternness, and you couldn't pry me out from between your legs with the Jaws of Life."

John decided to let the last sentence go even though it stung a little. It felt almost as if he'd never have a choice if he wanted things to stop with Avery, relationship-wise.

Avery had drawn blood from digging his nails into Johns shoulders. For a second, whilst he licked it off, John could swear he saw Sherlocks expression, but it was soon gone as whoever it was came, collapsing onto John with a shudder. They lay silent for a few minutes before John spoke. "I love you." He didn't know whom he was speaking to; and most of him was hoping it was Avery, for Sherlocks sake.

Avery sighed and linked his hand in John's, lying naked upon the table. He lifted it to his mouth and kissed it gently. "And I you." There was a clattering of footsteps, and Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the corner before retreating with a violent blush.

"Oh," she said. "Not on my kitchen table…I'll just come back later." Avery just grinned before standing up and pulling up his pants. He helped John to his feet and washed his hands, waiting for John to dress, singing some opera loudly enough for any neighbors, had there been any, to have heard every word. He lit up and took a long, luxurious puff, relishing every molecule. He hadn't felt this alive in months.

"Oh god, that's so embarrassing." John came out shaking his head. "We told her to knock, she knows that we-" He sighed and sat down. "Well now she knows for sure, I guess. What are we doing today then, if it's all up to you?" Avery hummed to himself as he smoked, thinking. "I literally have no idea, you don't go out of your way to go places, do you?" He got the newspaper from the coffee table and read it while Avery was left to think.

Avery laughed. "I doubt very much you'd want to come along for my outdoor activity of choice." It was clear he meant murder, but he tilted his head for a second, thinking. "I also rather doubt you'd want to properly introduce me to your family. Your mother's already met Sherlock, but as for your father…let's just say it wouldn't end well." There was a murderous glint in Avery's eyes, and he took a few quick angry puffs on his cigarette as he thought of him. "But I do like your mother's cooking, so perhaps we can do that for lunch." He leaned against the counter arrogantly, blowing smoke at the ceiling. "Never been up the Eye," he said. "But it's usually full of annoying kids. Then again, all kids are annoying." Avery walked to the living area and threw the stub of his cigarette on the fireplace. "Know any street shows?"

"No.." John went quiet as Avery babbled on about the possibilities. "Avery, I've been thinking.." Avery stopped and frowned, assuming the worst. "I want to be in a relationship with you." He looked down at his hands, feeling rather awkward as Avery stayed silent. "I mean, if you don't want to, I understand."

Avery stood in shock for a few seconds. "I…" A smile crept across his face, one that was eerily gentle, and he reached over and grabbed John's head, kissing him passionately. "I was going to ask the same this evening." He took John's hand, and his reaction was a bit overblown, as if John had asked his hand in marriage. "I have no illusions about this—I know it's not permanent or anything like a wedding, but it's what I've wanted. I was pissed at Sherlock for breaking up the way he did and then not trying to get back together, but…thank you. You make me feel human, not a subset of Sherlock. And I know I can't love you quite the same way you love me, but I do love you." He smiled. "Get dressed. I know where we're going this morning. Lover. Boyfriend." He pecked John on the lips and went to get dressed himself, choosing the tightest of white shirts and black trousers, humming jubilantly to himself as he slid his boots on.

"Oh dear, did I ruin things for tonight by asking?" John frowned when they were ready to go. "I'm sorry if I did." They got in a cab, Avery still not revealing where they were going. Avery reached over and slid their fingers today, with a large grin on his face, that was clearly hard to hide. "So, I haven't ruined things? Or, what?"

"No, you've not ruined them. You've made them better." Avery watched John the entire time before they arrived at Kew Gardens. "You know I have my flowers of choice, you know I'm not averse to them. Here we are." He strode to the ticket counter and bought tickets for the both of them before walking in, unusually slowly. Avery reached out and plucked a wild rose from its bush, regardless of the rules, and placed it in John's hand gently. "This is good," he said. "Us. Me. You. Us." He took a deep sigh and continued walking, arms linked, before standing in front of a patch of bird's foot trefoil flowers. His expression hardened. "Soon." It was a whisper, nothing more, but the emotion within it made it sound more like a vow.

John ignored what had been said, but he knew full well what it meant. He didn't want to anger Avery.

They got to a bench and sat down. "It's amazing here, I don't think I've been here before either, which is odd." He leaned over and kissed Avery on the cheek and smiled. "I've not been happy in a long time, and the past few days have made everything feel better, not that it will stay that way, but it feels brilliant."

"Me, too," Avery replied, with a more full kiss. "I've not felt angry since Liam woke up day before yesterday. And I'm always angry. I'm not sure if I like it, because it's made me feel different from who I am, but I'm happy." He took John's hand and led him around the rest of the Gardens, stopping to smell the flowers every so often or to comment on the shape of a bush. They even took a walk around the newly-arranged Olympic rings, created specially to commemorate the 2012 Olympics. Avery took care not to crush the flowers as he smelled them, showing unusual tenderness.

Eventually, they left and took a cab to John's mother's restaurant. "Oh! John's back!" The waiter hurried to escort them to the best table—their table—where Avery started to order a bottle of wine, but stopped at John's look and ordered a ginger beer. He played footsie under the table, running his foot up John's leg, and after ordering their food, stared at John thoughtfully.

"It's not exactly proper lunchtime conversation, but I have to ask you about Jack. I know you don't want to think about him. I think it's probably good you don't remember what he did, the end of it. For some reason, Sherlock doesn't think the sex was consentual, and I'll admit, it was a bit more risqué than normal, for me, but I did agree." Avery took John's hand across the table, looking like a child who'd done something he wasn't sure if it was wrong to do or not. "I'm sorry I let lust get the better of me. He says you wouldn't mind, but I'd rather hear it from you. If Jack comes back, do I have your permission to shag him? If you say no, I'll just have a wank or something. I just have to hear a yes or no from you. An honest one. I don't want you to give me the answer you think I want just because you're scared of upsetting me."

John thought about it for a minute or two. "Okay. It's still my body, and he loves you too. Just because we're different doesn't mean we don't care. On one condition though." Avery nodded, with a large grin. "The same applies with Sherlock and I, not that anything will ever come of it, it'd just be nice to have the chance." He almost winced as he waited for a reply, unsure of Averys reaction. "Don't get angry, please."

Avery looked uncomfortable for a moment. "Alright. Fair's fair. Maybe we can even work out how to have ourselves a foursome." His dark grin was back, the one that only came out when he was having extremely vicious thoughts. He was wondering how to incorporate his and Jack's sadomasochistic tendencies and yet not trigger horrible flashbacks. _Have to work on that. _ Suddenly, he started laughing, realizing how absurd it would seem to call his body and John's having sex a foursome, and it was a strange laugh. On the one hand, it seemed wholesome and healthy, but there was a black tinge to it, something not quite right. It was enough to give John a slight chill.

"Sorry," Avery grinned after about five minutes, during which his chuckle had escalated to full-on laughter as if he'd heard the best joke in the universe. "Not sure why that was so funny. I mean it was funny, I'm just not sure it was that funny." He tucked into his sandwich and chips, beaming, eyes dangerous and playful at the same time.

John didn't say anything while he ate, in fact he didn't speak much after it, either. Avery did all the talking, ranting on about certain knives and sex. He nodded quietly, feeling a large sense of uncertainty about the situation.

They walked through the gardens arm in arm, him still listening to Avery before they stopped. Avery asked him what was wrong, before grabbing his shoulders looking him in the eyes. "Nothing. Shall we go somewhere else, or home? It's up to you."

"Don't fucking lie to me, John." Avery was cross that John seemed so distant, refusing to acknowledge that there was something up. "Don't you fucking dare lie to me. You know I'll know." There was fire in his eyes, cold dangerous fury, and he was tense. "You need to go back to Dr. Thompson, John. You haven't been to see her since…I don't know when. Not since she came over after Natalia." John gave a dismissive sigh and looked away. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't turn away from me, not when I'm telling you something that matters." Avery's grip on John's wrist was painfully tight, and John's hand was starting to go cold from loss of circulation. "You need to talk to her about Jack. You need to talk to her about what Moriarty had us do to each other." John still wasn't making eye contact, and Avery released John's arm and grabbed his head, squeezing a little bit too hard, borderline disturbing. "Go see her. Tell her the meds aren't always working, tell her about the sleepwalking. I don't want to see you be so…wrong. Call and make an appointment, the instant we get home, okay?" He was forcing eye contact, boring into John's soul. "Please. For me."

"Don't you have any other interests? All you talk about is knives, murder and sex…" He swallowed before blinking, wishing he hadn't spoke. "You literally don't talk about anything else, and… I don't know. It's a bit strange." He pulled himself away. "I don't want to upset you but, I've noticed. You have to like _something. _Maybe a subject, an artist, an author. I don't know. Just anything."

Avery paused, realizing John was right. That was all he seemed to talk about. "I…" He thought for a second. "Ravens. Certain flowers. _The Dark Knight_. You." Avery's eyebrows were crinkled, feeling hurt a bit. "I can't help the way I am, John. I can't help thinking about what I think about. I've got Sherlock's tendency towards blind obsession." He kept his distance, tensing up. "I tried painting in the mental hospital, it was nice, but I prefer sketching. I haven't done any in a while. You know I compose, like Sherlock, I—" Avery pulled out a cigarette and lit it, thinking hard. "I didn't realize it upset you. Maybe…you could introduce me to other things, try to find shared interests?" He sounded a little confused, scrambling in his pockets. "Damn it. I didn't take my meds this morning, and I didn't bring them. But I'm alright, mostly, I'm fine." He sighed. "I just can't be what anyone wants. Sherlock wants to get rid of me, Liam wants to lock me up, Mycroft won't say it, but I know he finds me repulsive. You're not content with me. Zap seems nervous, Mrs. Hudson seems outright scared. Sex, drawing, and murder seem to be the only things I'm any good at. I have to be what I want, because I'm sure as hell not going to be what anyone else wants." Avery seemed genuinely hurt, as if something had gone right through to his black heart. "Ignore me, there's only one person that matters to me. You. If you're not happy, I'm not. Tell me what I can try to do, John. You've already improved me so much. What can I do to be better?"

"I asked you to be in a relationship with me this morning. I wouldn't of done that if you weren't 'enough' for me. I just feel as if your life must be a bit empty, that's all. Not that it bothers me if what you do fulfills you. I love you, okay? Please don't be hurt at all, it was just an innocent comment. You're not an inanimate object that needs to be changed and perfected, you're a human being, just as I am. Nobody is perfect, and nobody ever will be." He drew closer to him, sliding his hands around his hips. "I'm sorry. I just worry that you must get bored. Sherlock has so much to think about and Liam is always too emotional and childlike to need his thoughts, I just want to know what its like for you." Avery hadn't smoked much of his cigarette but he flicked it so he could put his arms around John.

Avery was still somewhat confused. "It's like I'm made of fire," he said. "Constantly burning. Burning with hate. Burning with desire. Burning up. Just…burning." He looked tired, strangely exhausted. "I'm always thinking about Moriarty, how to get him back, how I'm going to kill him. It scares the shit out of Sherlock and Liam, but that's who I am, that's what I do." He closed his eyes and gently tilted his head, thinking of an analogy. "It's…I'm fire. Liam's water. Sherlock…I guess he's metal." Avery opened his eyes. "Not frequently cited as one of the elements in the Western world, but it's perfectly valid in the East." He smirked, just a hint of Sherlock's smug grin, but his eyes were still the strange ice/fire. "I don't feel like I'm missing anything. I have a purpose, I have someone who cares about me. I don't get paid to do what I feel like I could make a living at, but that doesn't matter to me. All that matters is the work. The fun. My reason." He reached in tenderly and whispered into John's ear. "I was created to protect you and Sherlock. To somehow fix what Moriarty did to us. I love you, John, to the best of my ability to do so. I'm meant to be your guardian demon."

John blinked and nodded. "You're going to get in trouble though, you know you are. Not just you. And they'll think I was somehow connected. I just don't know what to do when you're out killing people that we have connections with. You just need to focus on Moriarty and then stop. If you care about any of us. And no, that isn't blackmail." He looked at him pleadingly. "Please. Every murder and they're closer to catching you. I hate the idea of that. I hate it."

Avery snorted. "You don't think I'm careful? You forget, consulting detective, I know all the little tricks and hints to keep from getting caught. I know how to completely erase evidence and leave no trace of the erasure. The only people who know what's happened are you, Mycroft, Zap, and Lestrade. Maybe Jenkins." His nose wrinkled in a most terrifying fashion, an _If they tell, that's just as bad as helping Moriarty_. His voice dropped so no one around could hear. "I haven't killed anyone since Hussey. It's not because I haven't wanted to, either. I have to fight it, like I have to do cocaine cravings. I was especially unwell when I got to Hussey, and the others were screaming at me to stop. Is there such a thing as murder rehab?" He'd meant it as a joke, but there was a little hint in his voice that said otherwise. "And to be perfectly honest, I get off on it. I realize how twisted that is, but I can't help what turns me on. It's power. Complete power. And besides, it's not like I haven't gone after people at random—everyone involved has directly harmed us." Avery bit his lip. "Justifications," he muttered. "What I'm trying to say is that you really don't have to worry about it. I'm doing my best, I'm fighting those urges, I'm becoming something better." He started laughing suddenly, the same laugh as earlier, the slightly unsettled laugh. "I'm a character from a graphic novel. Man gets hurt, the love of his life just as badly, and the main character goes off and slaughters the people who did it, complete with calling card. The biopic is going to be interesting." He trailed off and looked at John again. "I know it frightens you. I'm sorry it frightens you. But I won't get caught." It was a promise, a reassurance, almost a plea. "I'm too clever for that."

"You're clever. You're brilliant. But you don't know anything. How do you know that there isn't somebody just one step ahead of you? Somebody who is biding their time? You don't know." Avery pulled out another cigarette and lit it. "If you care enough, you'd be more careful, for me. Anyway, I want to go home or somewhere else. It's up to you but, flowers aren't my forté."

They walked hand in hand through the gates, and Avery hummed to himself. John didn't feel so great as he continued. "What the fuck, Avery." John, or rather, Jack shouted at him, pushing him so hard that he fell onto the floor. "You were meant to keep me hidden and locked away, for your own safety. You fucking dickhead."

Avery's cigarette dropped out of his mouth. "Shit." He stared for a moment and gulped. "Shit. Shit. Shit. No offence, it's great to see you, but the others are a bit…awake, watching today. It's not exactly the best time for you to wake up." He shook his head as Liam started screaming. "I would have kept that from happening, but I don't actually know what exactly wakes you up. But apparently, me humming. That's what happened last time."

Avery got to his feet slowly. He was wary of taking Jack's hand—Jack didn't seem happy to be there, and Avery didn't want to provoke him. So he just stood beside him for a few minutes before whipping out his phone and holding it out. "I don't know what to do, alright? Way I see it, we have three options right now. One, you keep on as yourself. Two, you pretend to be John for Sherlock and Liam's sakes. Three, we call Moriarty and see if we can get him to make you sleep again." Avery stared at Jack, conflicted, not knowing which option he himself would prefer. "I love you, and it should be your choice."

"I've hated being away from you." Jack pulled Avery to him and kissed him passionately. Avery didn't push him away, instead, he reciprocated and slid his hands into Jacks hair, which had grown shaggy. "Home. Lets go home. I shouldn't be in public anyway. I'm considered a risk, John said he wants me house bound." He licked his lips and looked Avery up and down with a smirk. "Flowers, not my thing. Shall we?" He held out his hand and led him out of the gardens.

Avery grinned wickedly. "Yes, let's." He linked his hand in Jack's, half- concerned that John was somewhere inside, upset at the affection. But he shoved the worry aside and didn't let go of Jack's hand until they got home.

**Avery's blog:**

shit.

Jack's awake again.

and while I love him (or lust him, whatever) just as much as I do John, this really isn't a good time. Sherlock was planning on making the announcement about his/our illnesses tomorrow night and he wants John there as support.

not to mention the fact that Sherlock and Liam are watching today, and now Liam's screaming. kid's fucking traumatised. I'm trying to be on a date, here. I thought we'd leave Kew, go see a film or pick up the other cat John wanted, head home, get some shagging in, finish tidying up some loose ends, and then get some sleep.

well, at least it seems we've got his trigger. I was humming this time, singing last time. now we just need to work out the trigger to bring John back.

Louis greeted Avery with a purr and Jack with a hiss. Avery clicked his tongue in irritation at the cat who had run under the sofa again. "I'm sorry about last time," Avery said. "About how you didn't get the time you deserve, not enough time to explore yourself. You don't even know what sort of telly you like, unless you figured that out after you'd swanned off." Avery sat on the sofa and motioned for Jack to sit beside him. He put one arm around him. "We have John's blessing now, to be together, so I have no qualms about…helping you learn about yourself." Avery smiled tenderly, a look that was almost alien to him, something only John had ever seen before. "I…I want you to be happy. To be you." He reached in for a kiss but stopped an inch away. He sat for a few seconds frozen, warm breath on Jack's lips before Liam whimpered.

"Nnnno," he moaned, still frozen. "No, Jack, no…please, no…" He fell silent again and then his mouth twitched back into Avery's smile. "Sorry. Where were we?" His lips locked Jack's and gave a passionate kiss. "Ah. Yes. Exploration."

"Liam will disturb us. I know he will. That won't be good for any of you." He swallowed and looked at him concerned. "John is worried, but is getting more and more unaware. He wants to tell you not to do anything until Liam and Sherlock aren't close to coming through. He slouched back and shook his head. "I love you, and believe me, I want this more than you can imagine, but I can't do it while John is shouting at the back of my mind, and Liam and Sherlock are doing the same at the back of yours. I want us to be completely alone. Do you mind?"

Avery frowned. "Yes, actually, I do, but you're right. Sherlock's nervous but—" Suddenly he reached in and kissed Jack tenderly as if to kiss him goodnight. "Sleep well, John. I love you and I'll be here when you wake." He pulled away slowly. "Thought it would be fair. I know Sherlock would feel better if John could do that. It's not a fade for him and Liam, it's a switch." Avery seemed almost lonely all of a sudden, as if a bit of Sherlock's melancholy was bleeding through, and he sat in silence for about thirty seconds.

"I need you to understand I want to hold him when he fades, as if to sleep." Avery's eyes changed, twisted, and he pulled away. He was Sherlock. "I feel like he slips into a coma each time. I'm concerned he'll never wake up, the one person I trust more than any other might be dead. I need to be able to make sure he feels fine, that he's not afraid as he goes into the dar—" He blinked, and shuddered. "Cut that out," Avery snapped. "Nice to get your moaning out of the way, but honestly." He tilted his head at Jack, thinking. "If we can't explore sexually or even films while they're paying attention, is there anything you _would_ like to do? Honesty hour? Poker? I dunno, Cluedo? Just…talk? I want to enjoy your company, I don't know how long you'll be awake." Avery felt like he was visiting someone with a terminal illness, not sure how many precious seconds he'd have with the man he felt was his soulmate as opposed to John, his sidekick (admittedly one he cared a great deal for). "I want to spend every second I have with you cherishing your company."

"What happens if you're stuck with me forever? I can't care for you three like he does, I can't cook, clean, or even sing like he does. I'm pure military, I'm dedicated to keeping myself in order before anybody else, even though I'm also meant to be looking out for my friends. I'm not funny, I'm not selfless, and most of all, I don't love Liam and Sherlock like he does. The main people in my life are me and you, and nobody else, John doesn't come into it, obviously. I know I'm an irrelevant waste, and no, that doesn't depress me, or make me remotely dissatisfied with my life, instead, it makes me feel guilty, because I know that you'll never love either of us fully, because we miss characteristics of the other. What I'm trying to say is, we need to be prepared in case we can't get John back." Avery sat, stunned, not uttering a word. "Hold me like Sherlock wanted, John's fading now, and I don't know when he'll be back. He's scared though, so he wants reassurance. Then we'll decide what to do together, right? I want nothing more than to spend time with you." He kissed Avery softly on the lips, breathed in sharply, and then put his head on his shoulder while he waited for John to fade.

Avery hadn't expected such an outburst, and at first, he hadn't known what to do. He found himself crying and laying Jack in his arms, worst fear—losing John forever—starting to seem like it could be a reality. "Shh, shh, I'm here," he whispered, stroking Jack's face tenderly, as if to a friend who'd been shot and was dying. "I'm here. I love you, don't be scared, we'll find a way, I pr—" Avery's voice choked off and his fingers closed around the wool and hair, and he let himself fade a little.

"I'll find you, John, don't be frightened," Sherlock said. "I promise you'll be safe, you'll be okay, shh, just relax. Y—you won't be gone for long, I'll figure something out. I—" Sherlock was rocking back and forth, truly feeling that John was slipping away in his arms. "I won't lie, I can't say it, I'm sorry, shh…"

"I love you, I love you, be relaxed, I am going to miss my angel, um," Liam sobbed and the warm tears ran down Jack's face. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happ—" The singing dissolved into sobbing, as in Liam's mind, John was dying, wings slowly losing their feathers, light nearly gone, and Liam let out one long agonising sob as the bones of the wings dissolved into sand.

Avery stroked Jack's face for another half hour in silence, Jack in his arms, his heart broken and his mind twisted into knots. It felt as though part of his soul was dying as the last bit of John's expression faded from Jack's face, and the emotions Avery thought he could never feel overwhelmed him, and he blacked out into a deep sleep.

Jack stayed silent, knowing that he should leave Avery to deal with what had happened. After a while, Avery stirred. "I'm sorry I went on like that. I didn't expect you to cry. I love you." He kissed him, tenderly, not wanting to scare Liam or Sherlock, and was surprised when Avery rolled over on top of him smiling. "Are they asleep? I mean, are you sure? He looked at him, concerned, once more. "As much as I want to, I know John wouldn't want me to harm Liam or Sherlock, or…" Avery was licking his lips. "Fuck it." Jack growled and dragged his nails up his back whilst kissing him, passionately.

Avery was starting to feel back to normal for him, the panic and mourning of the others almost completely gone. He shook slightly as the nails grazed his skin, and he whispered. "They're asleep. Couldn't handle it." He frowned slightly. "Liam thinks he's dead. Sherlock knows better, but he's…struggling." Avery reached in. "But never mind them. This is us now. We can't change the past so we may as well make the best of the present."

He unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way and kissed Jack's neck on the scar. His hands ran under Jack's shirt, pulling the cardigan off his head, and he pressed his heart to Jack. "You're…you're my soulmate. Not John. He's Sherlock's—it's not quite right. They're chaotic good and neutral good. We're chaotic and neutral evil." It wasn't a bad thing in Avery's opinion, that's just how things were. "We can understand each other in ways they never could." Avery nibbled Jack's collarbone slightly, making sure not to break the skin, but coming almost to it. "Their dark mirrors." He grinned evilly before running his tongue up Jack's sternum. "And the darkness has passion the light can never know."

"You're in a relationship with John, yet he isn't your soulmate?" He frowned, and put his hands on either side of Averys face before bringing his head up to look at him. "Have you told him this? You should tell him the truth." Avery snarled and went back to what he was doing. "No, listen to me. You need to tell him. He might find out anyway, I don't know, it'd hurt him if he didn't hear it from you."

Avery's libido was vanishing. He sat up sharply. "It's—ugh, I don't know. I love him. He's—it's a case of opposites attract for he and I, and with you it's birds of a feather." He ran his hands through his hear, frustrated at his own inability to say what he was thinking. "Sometimes you want the complimentary. Sometimes you want the similar." Avery grabbed the cigarette pack off the table and lit one. "It took so long for him to even think of accepting me. I'm worried that telling him he's not my perfect other half is going to kill him and end our relationship. I want it, I need it, it keeps me from—from killing people. From going mad. The knowledge that there's one person in this world who actually cares, deep down, for me." He waved his hand. "Alright, two, counting you. But it seems like he's romantically given up on Sherlock. I don't want him to give up on me just because he's…" Avery took a deep drag and let it out slowly. "Chocolate pretzels. Two things that go together that shouldn't. But somehow they do. And it's a perfect combination, even though the two things have nothing in common. And…and then chocolate caramels. So very alike, so perfect together. That's what it is." He wrapped his free hand around Jack's. "It's hard for me to love, to care at all. But the two of you mean more to me than anything." His face hardened. "I fell out of love with Sherlock the moment he tried to kill himself. It's turned into self-preservation rather than devotion to him." His eyes met Jack's again. "I can't tell John what I mean. It'll drive him away or something. I don't know. It's like…when you fall in love with someone, and they're exactly what you need, they're kind, supportive, gentle, but then you meet their brother, and he's everything you need that his brother lacked. Stern but not cruel, not coddling. The monster of lust and rage that I was is softening, it's turning to something less likely to end up in prison. Because of the two of you. I can't have just one."

Avery stood and went to the bathroom for a long while. When he came back, it was obvious he'd taken his medications, including the antidepressant Sherlock had never wanted in his system again. "I need the softer emotions right now," he explained. "This is the only way to get them." He sat beside Jack and lay his head on his shoulder. "I can't live without the two of you. That beating heart is all that matters to me."

"I wish there was a way for me to be as tender as John, and as caring." Jack sighed. "I'm stealing one of your cigs." He pulled one out of the pack and lit up, inhaling, relieved. "I just feel as if neither of us will be good enough for you. I'm not caring enough, and he's not disciplined enough, and then there is the fact that he'd jump at the chance of being with Sherlock, though that wouldn't happen. I'd never do that. I only want you." He smiled as he took another drag. "I still don't understand why you like him so much, though. He's as emotional as Liam, and you seem to hate Liam." He stayed quiet until he finished his cigarette, and then he turned back to Avery. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"

Avery smiled. "We can try." He reached over, sliding one bare arm around Jack's chest. "There's nothing wrong with you, you know. You're just…different." He was breathing the words rather than speaking them, letting his breath tickle Jack's face. "There's more than one kind of perfection." He swung himself around, on top of Jack's lap and plunged one hand down Jack's pants. He felt Jack's fingernails run down his back, sharper than he'd remembered, and he shuddered with pleasure. He led the way to the bedroom, and shakily whispered "You know the drill," pupils bouncing back and forth with excitement the way Sherlock's did when he tasted blood. Avery unclothed himself the rest of the way. "Don't hesitate. They're sleeping. Give me an order to resist and beat me until I obey. And don't hold anything back."

"Well, shut up then." He pushed him down onto the bed. Reaching into the bed side cabinet, he pulled out cuffs, and slid the chain around the bed before locking them onto his wrists. "Show me how much you want this, or you know what happens." He glanced over to the whip that was next to the bed. He got up and slowly undressed at the end of the bed, taking every piece of clothing off extra slowly, so he could see Averys reaction.

Avery was quivering, licking his lips as he envisioned the sensation of the cloth sliding down Jack's arms and legs. He let out a frustrated grunt as the exposed body in front of him was just out of reach. He pulled at the handcuffs, smiling slightly at the memory of his having broken through them in months past.

Jack continued to stare wickedly at Avery, who was conflicted between letting his passions take over and his urge to rebel. He'd been told to explain how much he wanted this. So he wasn't going to. He was fighting himself, literally squirming in the bed, trying to fight the thread of panic at being tied up naked and watched. He was winning.

Jack picked up the whip and paced at the bottom of the bed. He tapped it into his palm whilst looking directly into Averys eyes. "You're squirming. Have you nothing to say?" Avery bit his lip and stayed silent. Jack struck him across the legs, hard, trying to get a reaction out of him, Apart from a moan, there was nothing. "Say it. That's an order." He hit him on the hip, causing him to arch his back with another moan. "Soldiers are meant to follow orders from their superiors." He struck him once more before climbing onto the bed and crouching over him. "I keep giving you chance after chance, but you're not doing as you're told. Follow your orders." He hit him much harder than before, across the chest.

A black streak of panic ran through Avery's mind, flashing back to the warehouse, hanging from the ceiling. But he knew that if he associated the sensation with positive memories, even such horribly traumatic flashbacks would eventually fade. This time, his moans were stronger, more primal. "Hurt me," he snarled. "Make me bleed."

The whip came down hard with a crack, breaking the skin on his abs, causing a wince and a gasp. It felt good somehow. It felt right. Again and again, welts formed, tiny little drops of blood started to form, and Avery gasped with each hit, growing more and more tense. "Fuck me," he eventually half-screamed, a note of hysteria in his voice, but clear velvet desire behind the words.

"I'm the one who gives the orders. I didn't hear you plead at all." He hit Avery again and again, drawing bloody, bruising him. "I want to hear you beg. I want to hear you tell me exactly how much you want me. That's an order. If you do not comply, I'll leave you here, hard and needy, until you do."

Avery gasped. "I want you like a dying man wants water. It—ungf—" The pain distracted him for a moment. "I need you like I need cigarettes, like I need to spill blood." His chest was starting to get sore. "Like Sherlock needs his cases. Like—" Avery broke off with a pained gasp, not giving in, but probably coming to his body's limits. He moaned, turning pain into pleasure, fighting the memories of the last time he had to beg. Somehow, he was still enjoying this, enjoying the leather striking his skin, enjoying the trickles of blood he could now feel pouring down his torso. "You are a drug, as dangerous and as beautiful as heroin or cocaine. I need my fix. I need it now. _Give it to me_."

Jack threw the whip onto the floor and nodded. "Nobody will ever have you like I do, will they?" He stared at him while he squirmed and fought against the cuffs. "Answer my question. You won't let anybody else have you like this, will you? Not a single soul. Not even John." Avery was practically fighting a scream until Jack picked up the whip once more and put it in between his teeth. "You're mine, aren't you? You can spit out the whip if I'm right, and I'll fuck you like you want."

For a moment, there was a scream in Avery's mind. _Yes!_ his mind shouted. _ John wouldn't have me like this anyway. And I won't let Moriarty. _ He struggled to get the whip out of his mouth, spitting furiously, struggling. He finally managed to get it out, and half-screamed "Fuck me, damn it! Fuck me!"

Jack gave in and did what he asked, even though he was meant to be the one in control, it was quite obvious that Avery couldn't take any more teasing. He pushed his legs up and thrust in hard and fast, kissing his neck tenderly. "Nobody will ever love you as much as I do, I promise you that." Avery groaned and bucked his hips against him, almost as if he was agreeing.

He couldn't wrap his arms around Jack as he wanted, but Avery twisted as if he were trying. The blood was seeping down his chest, and overall, he felt very strange—almost high. A good high. He panted and gasped and moaned as Jack penetrated again and again, wiping the blood around with his fingers, kissing up and down the lily-white neck, and Avery eventually climaxed with a sinister giggle and his most emphatic ejaculation ever.

"I love fucking you—I fucking love you," he corrected before laughing at the Freudian slip. "Oh, whatever," he sighed, exhausted, before kissing Jack on the head and quickly drifting off despite the pain and the handcuffs.

While Avery slept, Jack uncuffed him and went looking for Johns medical kit. When he'd found it, he cleaned Averys wounds, even though the probability of them getting infected was incredibly low. He put plasters and stitches where they needed to be, before getting into bed next to him. "I love you." He whispered, kissing him on the end of the nose. Avery smiled in his sleep, and Jack fell asleep in his arms.


	17. Domestic Disputes

Sherlock opened his eyes, feeling rather strange. On the one hand, he felt the endorphins of the previous evening coursing through him—he was elated and content—but on the other hand, he was incredibly sore and he had a stomachache. It felt almost exactly as if he were on a cocaine crash, everything from the mild light hypersensitivity to the feeling of burning in every vein. "Joh—Jack," he corrected with a gulp. "I…I don't…I don't feel well."

He rolled over, out of bed, hitting the ground with a thud. He was light-headed and the fall hadn't helped, the ground hitting him full-on in the chest. Sherlock rose to his feet and staggered down the stairs to his own room, where he pulled out his black shirt, not Avery's, but his own, in an effort to hide his wounds should they reopen. "Appointment with Doctor Jenkins," he said. He was doing his best to fight the sickness that came whenever he thought of Jack, let alone saw someone in John's body who was never meant to be there. "Um. I wanted to tell everyone today. About…about what's gone wrong. In my head. Everyone—Mother, Zap, Natalia, the Woman, Stamford, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft." He was forcing himself to make eye contact with Jack. "I…" _don't want you there. I need John._ "I know you don't know how to wake John. I'd just hoped—" _never to see you again_ "—he'd be there. As support." Sherlock winced as he pulled on his jacket. "For their sakes, can you…can you try?"

"I don't know how it works, and I don't think Moriarty will change me back after just a day. I've texted him already but I've had no response. I know you hate me, and so does Liam, but Avery loves me, as much as you'd like to deny it. I know you'll be happy as soon as I'm gone forever, but you need to think about how I feel. I'm a person too."

Sherlock looked at his feet. "I know Avery has developed feelings for you, just as John has for him. And I'm fighting what you did, the three days I couldn't take my medicines because you—" Sherlock shook his head and tried to clear the terror. "I know you're just as much a person as Avery or Liam. I'm not contesting that. You're not what I need for support. You aren't my friend."

He was silent as he got into the cab, not expecting Jack to have tagged along, but he had. He sat diagonally opposite, as far away as he could, and stared out of the window until they arrived at their destination. Sherlock wiped his face, something neither he nor Jack were expecting him to have to do, and went inside.

He was called back almost straightaway, and sat quietly, waiting for Jenkins to speak, sitting forward in the chair.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded and Jenkins went on. "How have you been?"

"Jack's back. Last night, he and Avery…" Sherlock lifted up his shirt, showing the injuries before lowering it again. "Sex. Avery…he wanted it. He enjoyed it." Sherlock's brows were furrowed, clearly upset. "I was partially aware. Pain. Penetration. Curious ecstasy. But nothing else, it was…vague. Distant. The same feeling as the warehouse, whenev—" His eyes were welling up again. "Sorry, I…"

"Have you told anyone the details of your time there?"

"Not fully."

"Why not? Can you remember it?" Jenkins was clearly concerned about Sherlock repressing memories, about Avery having compartmentalized them into a place no one could access.

Sherlock stood up and faced the window, his back to Jenkins. "Far too vividly." He remembered everything, it was true. He remembered Moriarty's cruel grin, the exact dimensions of Moran's penis, the smell of the aftershave used by both. The only difference in Moran's clothing from John's was the size—everything was identical. The laughing. The way he didn't know how long he was there. He had felt himself blanking out when Moriarty had looked at him That Way, knowing that John was in hospital and could do nothing to save him. How weeks had felt like years of torment. No food. The bare minimum of water. No sleep. Raped, again and again, until it was as expected as the sun's rising and six times as often. The pain. The kneeling on the cement which smelled of a particular motor oil. The music, greatest hits of the '80s, constantly blaring, _Never Gonna Give You Up_ switched on when it was That Time.

"Sherlock?" Jenkins was concerned—Sherlock hadn't moved in nearly five minutes, but he'd started shaking and he was deathly pale. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" Still no reaction. Jenkins gently placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and all that did was trigger hyperventilation. "Sherlock, I'm going to go get Jack, alright?" He walked quickly down the hallway and burst into the waiting area. "Jack, I need you to come back." Jack stood and as soon as the door shut behind him, Jenkins continued. "I think I've accidentally triggered a flashback. I can't bring him out of it, and John seems to be the only thing that might. I know you can't voluntarily switch, but he needs you to try to be him, for a few minutes." Sherlock was still shaking as he stared out of the window, transported back to the horrors of that Christmas, reliving them in his mind as vividly as though it was the present time.

"I'm not exactly sure what to do, Jenkins. I'm not John, you know that. I don't have the love or compassion that he does. I'm not entirely sure of how to act like him, but I'll give it a go." He crouched down and put his hands on either side of Sherlocks face. "Sherlock? It's John, you have to snap out of this now." Nothing. "Sherlock, listen to me. You have to forget about what happened, even if it's only for a second. If Avery or Liam can hear me, one of you two take over, try as hard as you can. I believe in you."

_I believe in you._ The words somehow reached him, and Sherlock felt a wave like that of the ocean come over him. John's voice, John's words, it was the one person who had saved him, the one person who always did. "J…John?" He blinked confusedly, eyes starting to come out of their darkness. He was still tense, still clenching every few seconds, but he was calmer. His breathing was ragged, but it seemed as though he'd been tossed a life preserver. "John," he said, keeling over onto his face, completely unconscious.

Jack rolled his eyes as he helped catch Sherlock and lower him to the floor. "We done here?" For all his talk, he helped the limp man onto the sofa and checked him over once before getting a confirmation from Jenkins that he could, in fact, leave. "I'm not John and I don't know how to help. Besides, it's not like I don't get upset by the same things. I'll be in the waiting room." He stood and, before any protest could be made, left.

His eyes opened weakly. "Doctor Jenkins?" Liam's voice was timid and trembling. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep, I had a bad awake dream." He didn't get up, instead clutching the throw pillow to his chest and curling up slightly. "The Monsters hurt me…I can't forget it…"

"That's alright, Liam. I know it hurts and it's scary." Jenkins's voice was calm and relaxed, trying to keep Liam from panicking. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Liam nodded, looking quite queasy, and blinked slowly.

"I don't feel good, Dr. Jenkins, I think I might be sick." He grabbed for the trash can and sat up, still holding the pillow, but managing not to throw up, though admittedly he gulped repeatedly and retched a few times. "Make the bad things go away, make the Monsters go away," he weakly begged. "Before Avery does."

"I'm trying," Jenkins said. "I'm going to help however I can. I promise." He smiled gently. "Our time's up, though, for today, and you have to go home now." Liam paled and gulped at the thought, terrified of Jack. "It's alright, Liam, it's okay." Jenkins rose and escorted Liam to the door and back to the waiting area. "I'll see you next week, Liam."

Jack was initially very polite in front of Dr. Jenkins and his other patients, but once they got downstairs into the cab, any niceness faded, and his body language was cold. "Just stand on your own two feet, okay, don't be so dependent on John that you start throwing up whenever he's not around. It's pathetic and disgusting."

Liam whimpered and moved to the other side of the cab, as far from Jack as possible. He couldn't forget what Jack had done, muzzling and abandoning him without so much as a consideration for his other problems. He was too frightened to speak, and once the cab finally came to a close, he darted out of the vehicle and upstairs to his room, where he got out the paper and crayons and began to colour to try to blot out the fear.

"Seriously?" Jack sighed in disgust at the behaviour, at the fear, and picked up a book. He couldn't keep focus on it for very long, the tiniest little nagging sensation pricking at the back of his mind. He still would rather John have been there, not wanting to exist, born out of a twisted game by Moriarty, but he nevertheless felt he had every right to live. He fiddled with his phone, wondering if he should text Moriarty and ask, once again, to be suppressed, but not only was he sure one day would not be enough to satisfy him, he decided that he was going to enjoy the next week or so. At least.

Jack smiled. He was definitely planning on enjoying Avery, if nothing else. After all, Avery had promised to help him figure out the things he enjoyed, the music, telly, books, activities, whatever. All he had to do was wait for Liam to go away and then he could start enjoying himself. He picked his book back up.

Liam drew and drew and drew, pictures of Louis, fanart for his favourite radio programme, coloured in his colouring books, and none of it was helping too much. He eventually gave up and curled up on his bed, where Louis came to visit him. "I'm sorry, Louis, I'm sad." He hugged the cat and rubbed him until the purr started. "John's gone away again and I'm scared Jack will hurt me like he did before or worse." He was quiet again, stroking the cat until he fell into a trancelike state somewhere between waking and sleeping.

It wasn't until well after dark that he roused himself, and instantly felt his own grip slip away, and Sherlock's presence increasing. "Okay," he said before the transitional lightheadedness took him. Sherlock sat on the bed for a few seconds, composing and reorienting himself before standing and making his way to the door. He opened the door cautiously but not timidly, and plodded to the living room. "Jack," he said. "Um. I'm going to call everyone now, tell them to come over. I have to tell them. It's time."

"I don't know why you're making such a big deal of it. It's just your head and if they didn't care before, they won't now." Jack shrugged. "You don't have to turn it into a performance act." Sherlock didn't answer except to begin texting and calling people to come around that evening. "You're a whinger if ever I met one. It's annoying and it's selfish and rude. You're not the only one to have been raped and tortured by Moriarty, you know, but you don't see me moaning about it as often as I breathe."

Sherlock felt like he'd been stung. "I know." He put his phone down, the last of the invitations sent, and assumed his thinking position. "I know." Sherlock felt selfish and stupid and hadn't even stopped to think about what it was _Jack _might be going through. Being formed by a hypnotic suggestion, subject to being turned on and off at the flip of a switch, being even more clueless than Avery as to what it was he enjoyed…it must be miserable. "It…I'm sorry."

"Not sorry enough," Jack said, turning the page and shifting to signal disgust. Sherlock, too, picked up a book, and they sat in near-silence for an hour or two before the guests began to arrive. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford, pretty much everyone either Sherlock or John counted as a friend was there. Jack had previously decided that for simplicity's sake, he was going to pretend to be John as best he could—which, admittedly, was rather poorly. He helped usher people to their seats, but all he managed to do was give off the air of a John who was significantly angry and subsequently terse. Zap seemed to notice something was wrong, though, but kept her mouth shut at a glare from Jack. Sherlock was facing the window, not moving, watching as people arrived, until finally, everyone was present and seated.

Sherlock took a deep breath and faced his audience. Lestrade, Molly, Stamford, Irene, Natalia, Zap, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock's mother all sat somewhat nervously, not entirely sure why they'd been gathered. There had been drinks served, just in case, and Mycroft, who knew what was coming, had already finished his first brandy. Sherlock was the only one that didn't have a glass in hand, for medical reasons, but part of him wished he did. "Um." The others stopped their awkward babble and looked towards him. "I…I've asked you to come because as my friends and family, there's something you ought to be told, and I'd rather be the one to do it." He sat on the desk and crossed his arms. "As some of you know, I was…mm." He swallowed. "I was in Moriarty's hands for two weeks. I was—" _Best just to get on with it. _"I was raped. Repeatedly. Six times a day. Every day." Molly clapped a hand over her mouth at the sheer magnitude of what Moriarty had done. Mycroft took another large gulp of brandy, Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes, and Lestrade shifted uneasily. Sherlock shook his head, trying not to remember. His hands were already starting to shake at the memory, and his voice was showing the strain. "Quite naturally, I developed severe post-traumatic stress disorder. The flashbacks are easily triggered. A song, a smell, a certain touch. They're enough to send me into a breakdown, the severity of which can leave me in a fugue state for the rest of the day." Sherlock half-wished the group would say something, but there was total silence. "I was clinically dead for three minutes in an incident that came on my birthday, less than a week after I was rescued. When I came to, four days later, I felt better, I was recovering. And then I saw evidence of a split personality. Avery. He's extremely violent, misogynistic, psychopathic, and highly sexualized. He was insistent on having sex with John, whatever John would have thought of it. He's…committed several violent crimes, about which Detective Inspector Lestrade is well aware." He wasn't about to let on that Avery had killed several people, and would probably continue to do so. Those who knew, knew, and there was no need to tell anyone else. "I was so desperate to be rid of Avery, the monster inside of me, that I subjected myself to an experimental electroshock procedure. It led to hallucinations, and a certain event about which I do not want to talk compounded my PTSD. Suffice it to say that I don't do well with the taste or sight of fresh blood, spilled within the last hour." He shook himself out of the flashback that was starting, and continued. "The only thing I found to completely combat both the hallucinations and the personality switching was cocaine. I was on it for some time, constantly. John's threatening suicide was what got me to stop. And later still, I was kidnapped, drugged, and led to believe John and Mycroft were being murdered in front of me." He tilted his head. "Thunder triggers flashbacks to the gunshots. Chicken nuggets were involved. I want nothing to do with them. I was drugged and raped again, here. My diaphragm was paralysed for an extended period of time, and the only reason I'm still alive is because John was rescue breathing throughout the night. And when I awoke, I was again, split. This time, it was Captain Liam, a child. A happy, loving child of about seven years." He smiled slightly. Sherlock considered Liam a pleasant experience, despite the circumstances of his creation. "He and Avery don't get along. At all. Liam's first act was to try to reconcile Father's and my differences, it was important to him that Father know he was…not exactly forgiven, but accepted." Sherlock frowned. "Then he died. I still haven't mourned." Another period of silence followed while more gulps of alcohol were heard. "John and I were kidnapped again and were forced to have intercourse on pain of rape or castration. It screwed up my head again for a while, made me think John had raped me. I don't remember at what point I—or rather Avery—had a fit of paranoia, nearly killing Zap, convinced she betrayed me. I apologize." It was clear he meant it. "I…I tried to kill myself. I—it—Mycroft stopped me." Sherlock turned away for a few seconds, staring out of the window, too ashamed to face the rest of the group. "Moriarty did something to John, somehow implanted a personality inside him, one that could be switched on and off. Jack. He…he was cruel to Liam. To me. Not to Avery. Then he left. I went wrong, I couldn't work, I couldn't think, I tried to overdose with morphine, I—hmmm," he said, trying to calm himself down. "John came back. I went to rehab, where I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. I'm clean of it now. John's been granted permission to be my official caretaker. If it weren't for him being a doctor, I'd be in an institution again."

He was quiet for a good three minutes, watching the street outside, wondering what to say next. "To recap, I'm an intermittently suicidal paranoid schizophrenic recovering drug addict with PTSD and multiple personalities." He turned around, and his eyes were red. He'd been quietly crying the whole time he'd been facing away. "I…I…I don't like what's hap—" Sherlock's face softened into Liam's expression. Liam grinned broadly before looking embarrassed. "Oops. Sorry if Sherlock was saying something important. Oh, I guess I should say hello. I'm Captain Liam, but you can call me Liam if you're talking. Some of you have met me already, but not all of you, hello, Woman!" Liam waved at Irene happily. Mrs. Holmes burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and sobbing loudly. She'd seen her brother-in-law, Sherlock's uncle Thom, shift through his personalities, and to see it in her son broke her heart. "Don't cry, Mummy," Liam said, rushing over to her and hugging her tightly. "Please don't cry. I love you, I don't want to see you sad." It only made it worse, and her sobs were almost the same as Sherlock's hysterical cries. "Please what's wrong? I don't want you to be sad, Mummy, please be happy…"

"For God's sake, you're not helping!" Jack shouted it and moved to pull Liam away before halting. Liam was singing a lullaby to his mother, and Molly and Mrs. Hudson were trying to comfort her as well. It appeared that Liam had accidentally triggered a mild panic attack, and Jack felt helpless, bitterly wishing John were awake instead, that he could lend his medical aid to the aging woman. "Everyone who's not related to Sherlock, leave," Jack ordered, much to the shock of everyone, particularly Stamford and Molly. "Please," he added reluctantly. "I'll have him call you all in the morning."

Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford, Molly, Irene, and Natalia filed out, giving one another condolences as they went down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat for tea if not something stronger. Jack wished they were totally leaving, but understood the problem. Zap seemed distant from her half-brothers as they tried to ease their mother into a calmer place, and took Jack aside, down the hallway.

"What the hell is your problem?" She half stomped her foot, crossing her arms.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know damn well. You're being rude, unsupportive, and, to be blunt, a bastard. Don't think I didn't see you rolling your eyes when Sherlock was telling us what happened to him." Jack was half-amused at this, knowing that he could easily snap the teenager in two if he wanted, but for the moment, he decided it would do more harm than good. "So tell me. What's going on?"

"I don't have the time for this, Zap. Or the patience. Just…hypnotically-implanted personality, okay, just don't ask anything else, and it's Jack, for the moment, not John. Unless you didn't listen to what Sherlock said, you should have suspected that, if you're half as clever as the rest of your family. So shut up and leave me be. I don't want to be here any more than anyone else wants me here." Jack left the shocked woman and returned to the living room, where, it seemed, Mrs. Holmes was much calmer.

Liam was sitting on the sofa, clearly upset by having upset his mother, and Mycroft had done most of the calming work. "I'm sorry," Liam kept whispering. "I didn't mean to make you hurt, I'm sorry." Mrs. Holmes had regained much of her colour, and had been handed yet more alcohol, which seemed to be steadying her.

"I think it would be best if I go," she said tersely. She reached out for Liam and put a hand on his cheek, sniffling. "I'm so, so sorry, my star." He reached up and embraced her fully, hugging her tightly as if trying to say _Please don't go. Jack will hurt me._ "Sher—Liam, you have to let go, please, I have to go home now."

"No."

"Liam, please. I'll come back tomorrow if you'd like, I promise, but you need to let go now."

"_No_," he insisted again. "I'm scared of Monsters," he whispered in her ear.

"Shhhh, it's alright, I promise the monsters won't get you if you stay here with John tonight." She put her hands in his hair and was rubbing gently, tenderly, motherly. "It's okay, I promise."

"John's not here," he said. "It's Jack. Jack hurts me. Jack's a Monster, too. Please don't leave, Mummy. Not again. Don't leave me to be hurt by Monsters." To that, Mrs. Holmes had nothing to say, she simply hugged her youngest son tightly and tried to comfort him.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'll be going, and should I hear of any…mishaps, I will invite him to stay at the estate. I think that's fair, don't you?" Liam nodded and slowly let go of his mother, and Zap helped usher her away. "I trust you'll be keeping in touch, Captain?"

"Yeah. Of course. I'm earning that money I'm getting off you." The words sounded teasing, but the intent was not. If not for Avery and the money, he'd leave again. As soon as the door clicked shut and everyone was either downstairs or off, he turned on Liam. "I don't want to hear you whine, I don't want to hear you speak. Only talk if Avery wakes up. Otherwise leave me alone or I'll be tempted to muzzle you again, you got it?"

Liam nodded timidly. He took his Pirates of the Caribbean DVDs to his room and settled to watch them, but he couldn't make it ten minutes without dissolving into helpless sobs. "I'm all alone, Louis…the Monsters could come in through the window again and no one would come to save me…" He stroked the cat gently and hugged him, hoping that something would bring John—his angel—back to him. "I'm scared…"

Something tickled in Jack's mind. John. Just a sense of something fighting to come out of a deep sleep, nothing more, and Jack almost wanted to let him. To let him emerge from the blackness and be aware of his surroundings in more than just the sliver of a way he knew now. But Jack changed his mind, and flicked open a pack of cigarettes to ease his mind.

Avery. Everything was Avery. The cigarettes, the healing bruises, the aftershave, the fresh flowers on the mantle. For Jack, there was no one else and there never would be. Except John had claimed him first, not that either Avery or Jack really decided to be exclusive to just one mind in each other's bodies—that would be too complicated. And he knew it, and Avery knew it, and Sherlock and John knew it. Liam didn't seem to. Liam thought that they should all tiptoe around him. Oversensitive, pathetic weakling. And Jack could hear him crying. "Oh, shut up," he said. "No one cares."

Liam heard Jack and curled up even more tightly. He was too scared and too down to even text Mycroft for help. He needed something he could hold onto for comfort, something that wouldn't squeak in protest like Louis, something he could squish. Fortunately, he had a smartphone, and before he could think about what Sherlock or Avery might think of him using their money, he had ordered a pillow pet bee online, to be delivered next-day shipping. Then he curled up again and tried to finish his marathon of films, but the stress of the day totally knocked him out, and he was asleep before the final battle of the second film.

Jack had fallen asleep in the chair, but it was John who dreamed. Hands were holding him down, groping him, keeping him from getting up, covering his mouth, and no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't defeat them. He couldn't call for help, and there was only just enough light to see that the hands were his own, were Jack's hands, and Moriarty's, and Moran's, and even Avery's. He struggled, fighting against everything that was trying to hold him back, and Jack woke up before there was any sort of resolution.

"Stop that," he muttered sleepily before putting a marker in the book and staggering to the kitchen to make tea. It was half past nine, far later than he'd intended to wake up, and there was no sign of Sherlock (and company) being awake yet. "Making tea," he called.

"So I smell," came a low, rumbling voice. Avery had been in a deep slumber, but the dream of a fire catching up to Liam and engulfing him hadn't bothered him. "Good morning, handsome," he added as he walked into the living room and seated himself in Sherlock's chair. "You been smoking my cigarettes? Dangerous move. If you were anyone else, you might be punished." He said it with one of his wicked grins that said he was only half-joking. "Keep to your own." He lit one up himself and leaned back. "And as usual, I've no idea what to do with my day besides my usual murder, shag, or sketch. Or some combination of the three." He slumped back and down into the chair, bruises and cuts from two nights previous stinging pleasantly.

"We were gonna figure out what sort of things I like, remember?" Jack took the kettle off the heat and poured the water into the pot. "Since we had that whole discussion about the fact I have fewer interests than you do." Remembering that Avery took his tea black and with just the one sugar, he poured some for him, and some for himself. "I don't even know how I take my tea." He left it black and unsweetened for now, and sat in John's chair. "We don't know what I like to watch on telly, we don't know what music I like, we don't know any of that." Then Jack grinned. "Well, we know what I like in the bedroom, at least. But we may have to confirm that later." He sipped and winced slightly, before adding a bit of milk and sipping again. "Better."

"True. Though I haven't the faintest idea as to where to start myself. As John pointed out, my interests are sex, murder, drawing, and those flowers," Avery said, nodding to the mantle where once again, Johnston the skull was stuffed with Bird's Foot Trefoil flowers. "Sometimes writing shitty poetry." Avery's nose twitched. He hadn't done that in a while and hadn't realized he was missing writing. "Pretty sure it wouldn't be acceptable to go off and see how much you like murdering someone. Which is a shame, really. But at least we know you've got the stomach for it." He tapped the ashes from his cigarette onto the saucer and took a sip of tea, sighing contentedly. "I guess we start with telly?"

Jack shrugged. "I guess." He flipped through channels for a bit, looking for something that interested him. He went from melodrama to documentary to kid's shows to medical drama to crime drama, trying show after show, but he couldn't find anything that interested him. "There's nothing," he said, on the verge of throwing the remote down, but then Torchwood came on, and he found himself enjoying it. It didn't hurt that the lead character was also a Captain Jack, who had no hesitation to shoot something down that wasn't in his best interests.

Avery, however, was bored by the show, everything but the sexual aspect of every single character. He didn't care about aliens or time travel, it was all nonsense and all pointless. But he watched for Jack's sake, glad that Jack was, at least, finding some enjoyment in it.

Then suddenly, Avery was bitter, very, very bitter. As much as he loved Jack's company, he wanted John, it was John he was in a relationship with, it was John he loved more than as just a bedroom partner. And Avery had unwittingly shoved him aside and let Jack wake up. John hadn't wanted it, Jack hadn't wanted it, no one wanted it. "So piss off and go back to sleep," Avery suddenly snapped. "Sorry. Not my ideal morning."

"Not my damn fault," Jack muttered. "You know it." He switched off the telly. "Your ideal morning is a shag across whatever furniture happens to be nearby and a killing spree. Nothing the mind needs, you're all body." He stood to take his tea to the kitchen, and put the cup and saucer in the sink rather sharply. "Just forget it, okay, we're meant to be finding stuff I like, and lovers' quarrels don't qualify."

Avery took great offense to the implication he never used his head. "And precisely how many serial killing sprees have you gone on? None." He ruffled his hair. "Look, I don't care what you think of me right now, okay, I just want to deal with John right now, and not you. But life's not that kind. So shut up and let's get on with it before I get any more pissed off."

Days passed. Weeks. Liam had avoided Jack at every chance, shutting himself up in his room every time he'd awakened unless he was out, Sherlock did much the same, after trying to tolerate the other man's presence. Avery, on the other hand, grew much more amiable as time went on, even playing games with one another, and, of course, their sexual activities remained in play, with a safeword if Avery felt one of the others waking up.

Jack had discovered that he had a fondness for comodo dragons, the colour yellow, and suits, along with similar musical taste to John. He was ever the cynical soldier, and kept his body in fantastic shape, much to Avery's delight, and it looked as though no one was going to bring John back, so he decided he'd make the best of what he had. He'd stopped attending therapy sessions altogether, which Sherlock wasn't pleased with, but he neither wanted nor felt he needed someone butting in on his personal thoughts all the time. It was bad enough with frozen, petrified John in his mind's eye, and no matter how hard he told himself John wasn't aware, he was always paranoid of being observed.

Six and a half weeks since that eventful date, Jack could hear Liam talking in his room, and went to go investigate.

Jack could hear Liam talking to the air, talking to a hallucination. "Why are you going away? Please go back inside your body, I don't want you to leave." The image Liam saw was of a John made of pure light, angelic wings spread wide, looking at the ceiling, and then back at Liam. "Please stay," Liam said in a very small and terrified voice. The hallucination reached down and stroked his face, kissing him on the nose before fading entirely. "Come back, John," Liam said. "Please, I love you, come back." When the vision didn't return after five minutes, Liam began to sob desperately. "Come back! Come back! John, help! Come back!" He was screaming, hysterical, and jumped as he heard the doorknob click. "Go away, Jack, and bring back John!"

Jack opened the door. "I can't, you know that. So quit whining about it before I get the muzzle again." He'd come in to make sure that Sherlock's body was alright, that Liam hadn't taken something he shouldn't or had otherwise harmed himself. The worst that had happened was that Liam appeared tired, dark circles under his red and puffy eyes, and was sitting on the floor surrounded by stuffed animals that he'd won at the funfair or had bought, as if too upset to even get into bed. "For God's sake, take a nap or something, you're a wreck. And I'm not having you fall asleep in the living room."

Liam put Hamish, the human-sized teddy, between them. "Go away and don't come back until you're John," he said. "And if you're never John, don't come back ever." He stood and physically pushed Jack from the room, closing the door and slumping with his back against it. "I need my angel…" He'd not taken his medication today, too wrapped up in nightmares and desperation. He didn't feel strong enough to leave for good, not even now that John's spirit seemed to have left forever, and anyway, he knew that Avery would just come back. Liam's head drooped, and he fell asleep against the door, the first actual sleep in days, and his dreams were incoherent dreams of falling helplessly.

Jack was sick and tired of babysitting Liam. There was no getting around that. And on the rare occasions Sherlock was social, he always spoke haltingly, as if terrified of something, a poor, weak man. The only bright spot was Avery. Jack smiled at the thought of his lover, the strong one of Sherlock's three, who not only fought through horrible flashbacks to turn it into fun, but was generally Jack's ideal man. He and Jack got excited at the same sort of talk, although Avery wasn't into science fiction and Jack wasn't that keen on a show like Dexter.

But, to the present, Jack retreated to the living room and turned on his and John's computer. He'd given up hope of seeing John again, of being John again, and was finally coming to terms with that fact. Jack did feel a bit of regret at that, but only the tiniest amount.

He sighed.

* * *

><p><strong>Jack's blog:<strong>

Two things:

I'm really getting fucking sick of looking after Liam and Sherlock. They're annoying as hell and the only reason I haven't left again is because Avery didn't do so well last time.

The other thing is that it's been six weeks now, and there's no sign of Moriarty letting John back up. So I guess I'm in charge now, and for good. I can't say I won't miss him. I mean, he's still there, in stone, but he's never going to wake up unless we get the keyword and we don't even know what it is.

* * *

><p>Sherlock opened his door and quietly moved to the kitchen to get the first food he'd had in two days. Nothing terribly much, just some pot noodles, as he didn't feel up to making anything more elaborate, and a small glass of water with which to take his medication. He opened his mouth to address Jack, to ask if there was any sign of John, but was overwhelmed by Liam's voice chanting <em>John's gone, John's gone, John's gone<em> over and over and over. It hurt, it stung like being slapped again and again, and Sherlock felt his will to live waning.

"Anything interesting in the papers?" He was trying his best not to think about it directly, trying his best to pretend things were alright. It wasn't working terribly well, but at least it was a way to fight off the gloom that was settling in for another day of helplessness.

"I don't know, I get my news from telly." This wasn't the relationship of friends. This was two men who could barely stand one another's company, yet had to live together. "You shouldn't have asked if you were gonna read the damn paper anyway." Jack turned the volume on the television up, blotting out any other thoughts, not least of which being that he was going to have to find a way to cope with his apparent permanent existence. He'd have to use John's name, John's ID and contacts, but apart from the paperwork, he was going to distance himself from the person he had been.

Sherlock swallowed his noodles in silence. All sense of normality was gone, all hope of recovering from the track Moriarty had set them on, vanishing by the second. _John's gone, John's gone, John's gone, John's gone_. "Stop," Sherlock whispered desperately, trying to keep the hallucination of his other personality quiet. It didn't work, and the more Liam said it, the more Sherlock wanted to scream. But he took his medicine instead. He finished his noodles, but stayed seated at the dining table, waiting for something to happen, either Avery or Liam to wake up, or Jack's show to end. Two, three episodes passed before Sherlock spoke up. "Should I go to Mycroft's? You clearly don't want me here. I don't want to be here."

At first, Jack thought of agreeing to it, it would get Sherlock and Liam out of the way and leave him with a nice little flat in central London, next door to a very delicious place to get lunch. Then the realization set in that he'd be deprived of the person who made him feel worthwhile; the only time he truly felt alive was during intercourse with Avery. "No." His own fondness for Avery wasn't the only deciding factor, either. There was a little something nagging at him, telling him to keep Sherlock (and company) in sight, and it wasn't worry over drug abuse. "No, I need to keep you where I can see you."

"I'm not your prisoner," Sherlock stated bluntly. "I'm not your pet, I'm not your slave. I'm not even your charge, I'm _John's_." He gulped. "The only reason I haven't walked out that door is because I'm thinking of how John would feel if he wakes up and I'm not here." Sherlock felt better, having said it, and realized he'd been making rather ferocious eye contact. "I'm not staying for me. I'm staying for John. You're an abusive, controlling, violent—thing, and you're not healthy. I can't be here anymore, and if you won't give me permission to leave, I'll walk out without it."

Jack actually laughed at that. "Are you fucking serious? You won't leave, not even for a little bit, no matter how big you talk. You can't be away from John—from me, even—for very long. You tried that once, remember? You wound up trying to kill yourself with morphine." He smiled wickedly. "Besides, if you were going to leave, you'd have done it by now." The phone rang.

_Yes?_

_Ah, Captain Watson. So good of you to answer when I call. Did you get that info I asked for?_

_Yeah, I'll email it to you, one sec._

Time jumped and suddenly John's laptop was in front of him, looking at his inbox, the message sent and erased, half an hour passed in a blink of an eye. Sherlock was scratching away at the violin, a weakly-bowed song of clear sadness coming from the instrument. "Can it, would you?" Jack was cross because of the missing time, sure that it was some sort of post-hypnotic suggestion Moriarty had implanted. It was more than just the on/off switch that had been put into his brain. There was more.

The violin faltered, Sherlock spun around, half-angrily and totally hurt, and went into the bathroom. "Bath," he said. "I don't want to shower, I need the water, the calm." The water ran into the tub, and Sherlock shook his head, the sounds of Avery's victims starting to bubble at the back of his mind, mixing with Liam's chant of _John's gone_ to create a maelstrom of pain. He floated down into the water, voices running into his head, not going away, reminding him that he was one attention lapse away from murdering someone else. And that it very well may be Jack he killed. It hurt. Liam was screaming. Avery was babbling, violently fantasizing, and in excruciating detail. Sherlock held his breath and went underwater, trying to drown it out. _Drown_. He opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, the concept hitting him full-on, and a shock of fear going down his spine.

But it suddenly settled as surely as if he'd been sedated_. Please, no, _whimpered Liam. "I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, and slid himself down again, eyes shut, steeling himself for what he was about to do. And then he took a deep breath of water, at which his body and his minds screamed, and he had to fight instinct, taking another breath. He could feel himself thrashing about, perhaps the others trying to get away, but his only focus was to keep himself underwater, keep drowning, keep dying. It stung like knives in his lungs, it ached more than anything, he coughed and took deep breaths of the life-giving water, and part of him was glad for the pain, to know that the last thing he'd know was some sort of sensation, some hint of reality. Through the distorted vision of the water and the tunnel of the oncoming blackout, he saw Jack break open the door, murder in his eyes. But that was the last thing he knew as he took one last gasp of water.

Jack wrenched the now-unconscious Sherlock from the tub and turned him onto his stomach, smacking him across the back, trying to get him to expel the water which was slowly leaking from his mouth. Eventually, the choking gasp of someone who nearly drowned was coming from Sherlock's mouth and throat, and the bathroom floor was quickly flooded with the contents of Sherlock's lungs.

Pulling John's stethoscope from the cabinet, he checked to make sure there wasn't too much fluid left in Sherlock's lungs before setting him up on his bed, on his side, unconscious still, as though he didn't want to wake up. "Fucking selfish dick," Jack muttered. "Bloody coward, no wonder your dad hated you."

Sherlock was unconscious for some time, an hour and a half, and when he finally awoke, he was in no better of a mood. He phoned Mycroft after another half-hour, told him what had happened, and the elder had promised to send a car and a strong man to help Sherlock get away. He still felt weak, lightheaded and ill, and it was hard enough mustering up the strength to call Mycroft, let alone to get dressed and go downstairs to tell Jack what was happening.

Standing at the doorway to the hall, he cleared his throat, an act which turned into a cough. "I'm leaving," he said simply. "You can't stop me." The last time Sherlock had left, it had sent John into spirals of suicidal panic, and he hoped that it would not happen again, or that if it did, Jack would stop the emotions in their tracks.

"What do you mean, you're leaving?" Jack stood up angrily. "You can't fucking leave." He approached Sherlock, who showed no signs of flinching, backing down, or otherwise faltering. "You wouldn't last one week out there, in the big bad world, without me to protect you. We've seen what happens when you try." Despite being several inches shorter, he was attempting physical intimidation. Maybe that would get the point across. "You get drugged up or dead." Then he smirked. "If you leave, I'll shoot myself in the head."

"No, you won't," Sherlock said softly. "You're not like John, you wouldn't do that. You value your own life too much. It's a power play. I'm not playing." The look in Jack's eyes told Sherlock he was right. Why would someone as bloody-mindedly determined to live now that he had life as Jack give it up just to spite Sherlock? "Not even Moriarty was able to play that card." Something about the situation left Sherlock feeling empowered, as Jack looked helpless and angry.

The bell rang and footsteps came up the stairs as a very large and strong-looking man came up. "We're here for Mr. Holmes," he said simply. Sherlock nodded and put on his coat.

"I'll be back when John is. Not before." He went downstairs, got into the inconspicuous black car, told himself he'd done the right thing and a better choice than death, and they drove off, leaving Jack at the window, not knowing what to do but try to move on.


	18. The Christmas Miracle

**Sherlock's blog:**

It's been nearly a year since John vanished on his way to get the milk.

Nearly a year since this all began in earnest. Since nightmares became reality.

And here I am, having walked out almost four and a half months ago.

I'm doing well, I gather from the e-mail conversations that Jack is still in control, but I'm living with Mycroft, well out of danger. It's both gratifying and terrifying, all these years and I'm back to living with family. It hurts but at the same time, I feel safer here than with Jack, waiting for the unlikely day that John will return. We all miss him incredibly much, as much if not more than I did after my faked death.

But at least Mycroft's keeping me together, him and Dr. Jenkins and Zapharia (who now is quite close friends with Liam). We're planning a Christmas dinner, complete with presents, for everyone involved. Try to make this Christmas a good one, instead of the horror of last year. Hopefully it'll work.

All I want for Christmas is John, though. Safe. Sound. With me.

* * *

><p>The phone was in John's hand, but whoever it was he'd been talking with had hung up. His head was swimming, and he felt as though he'd been drinking a bit. "Sherl'ck?" He tried to stand up to look for his flatmate, but the instant he got to his feet, he was pulled downward. Drinking a lot, then. "Ow," he said from the floor. "Sherlock, where 'r you?"<p>

Sloppily, he reached up to grab his phone to text him. He unlocked the screen, and saw the date—12 December. "Shit." The last thing he knew, the Olympics were just about to happen and he and Avery had been taking a stroll through Kew Gardens. That was June. Now it was December.

Fear started to set in. What had Jack done to Sherlock/Avery/Liam? Their stuff was put away, as surely as if he'd moved out, or died. The only remnant was Avery's sketches, framed and set on the mantle. Other than that, there was no sign anyone but Jack had ever lived there at all. He took a deep breath and decided to send off a text anyway.

SHerltock wher arE yougj? -John

John waited for a text. If no one answered in the next half hour, he'd ask Mycroft, no matter what the news. But he hoped to God Sherlock was okay. Or that, at the very least, he was in safe hands and not with Moriarty.

Sherlock had basically not left Mycroft's house in a little over four months, both in a despairing slump and from lack of motivation. Only Liam ever wanted to do anything out that Mycroft approved of, so on occasion, they went to the park, but it never ended well, with Liam always dissolving into tears and "I miss John"s.

The phone chimed, and Sherlock looked at it, expecting a text from Molly or Stamford, but when he saw it was John, he froze. Then, fingers shaking, he replied.

…John? JOHN! I'm at Mycroft's, I thought you were…I thought I'd lost you.  
>SH<p>

Far more than that, if Sherlock was honest. He thought he'd lost himself. Never mind a lack of cases, he had felt that he'd been regressed to his teenage self, the one who lived with Mycroft because his father had kicked him out of the house. He was just as directionless now as he was then, but instead of cocaine, the driving motivation was whatever Liam or Avery wanted to do, sitting around, playing video games, watching telly, eating, sleeping, and not much else. Sometimes, he'd call someone on the phone, read a book, compose or draw (depending on who was in charge), but nothing more.

There were tears of joy on Sherlock's face at John's return, hot salty relief for the fact that maybe, just maybe, his only Christmas wish was coming true.

John, too, was crying. Sherlock was fine, he was safe, he was alive. Somehow, some way, John suddenly felt those empty months, not as long as the years they'd been apart, and not as painful, because he hadn't been aware, but right now, he felt like they had been. He lay on the floor sobbing for a few moments before picking up his phone again, squinting through the alcohol, and dialing a phone number—Sherlock's phone number.

Sherlock answered immediately, and sat for a few seconds, almost daring this to be a dream. "J…John?" He was greeted with a drunken slur of his name, and he let out a tearful chuckle. "John, oh, God, it's you, isn't it? I mean, actually you, not Jack?" He was losing physical resolve rather quickly, lightheaded, slightly nauseous. "Please tell me it's you."

"'f course iss me," John said. "'m just a bit drunk. Lot drunk, acshully." He groaned slightly. "Dunno what Jack was thinkin'. Dunno if he was thinkin'. I feel kinda sick, um…" He winced and belched slightly. "Whiskey, tastes like whiskey. Hangon a minnit, lemme get—oof. Never mind. 'll jus…lay here." John chuckled slightly, his attempt to get a cool cloth for his head backfiring spectacularly. "'s not the way I wanted t' wake up, but 'm not complaining 'til I get the hangover." He breathed softly for a bit. "'m sorry, Sh'rlock."

Sherlock sighed, playing with the corners of the pillow on his bed before speaking. "I know." He sat quietly, taking deep breaths for a few seconds, before speaking again. "I'd rather have you drunk than not at all, John." He wasn't quite sure what to say, having been the one to leave, and it having been Avery who triggered Jack to begin with. "I need you," he said softly. "I need you. Please, c—" He cut off and was silent for quite some time. But then, timidly, Liam's higher-pitched voice came over the line. "…hello?"

John smiled. He'd missed Liam, too. "Hey, Liam. 't's John." Silence. "I'm back now." More silence. "I'm sorry I left for so long. I love you, I didn't wanna do that." There was a quiet sniffle, but nothing else—Liam was either angry or sad or happy or too stunned to speak. "Can you…can you please say som'thing? Pref'rably that you forgive me." John felt himself starting to cry again. "Please."

"I love you," Liam said quietly. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you." He smiled, though John couldn't see it. "I love you forever and ever and ever, will you come to Mycroft's house and play with me and hug me and cuddle with me please?" The words had come out in ever more quick streams, lovingly and excitedly hoping that John would come. "I haven't slept as well as when I cuddle with you, please come, I want to see you soon!"

"I wanna cuddle with you, too," John said. "Uh, can Mycroffft bring a car or somethin, I'm…I'm drunk, 'm afraid." Liam said that Mycroft would. "Good, I wanna hug you and cuddle and just…I miss you, all of you, so much." He smiled, too, glad to hear Liam's voice, just to know he wasn't alone or abandoned after all.

_Look at you, so sappy._

John gulped. It was the first time in a long time he heard the voice, but where once was Moriarty's voice, it was now Jack's. "Please, Liam, can you keep talkin' to me 'ntil the car gets here? I…need t' hear you."

"Okay," Liam said hesitantly, knowing that he would want the same if something unpleasant was waiting in the darkness for him. "I've been colouring a lot, and sometimes I've gone to playgrounds with Mycroft, but it's not the same as you. I missed you. Sherlock tried to drown us once but then he left Jack and he was better, but he was scared you'd wake up and hurt yourself because we were gone." He was quiet for a few seconds. "It was scary. And then My came and took us home and we don't go outside a lot. Sherlock doesn't want to, he's very sad, and Mycroft's afraid of Avery if he goes outside by himself. Zap and I watch films together sometimes, Disney films a lot. We even get Mycroft to watch Aristocats with us, because he likes the jazz music so that's good. But I usually fall asleep and someone else wakes up or sometimes I just fall asleep." Liam, again, fell quiet for a bit. "I missed you, angel. I miss your hugs and your warmth and your nose-kisses. I get to have them again soon, though. And I'm going to give you a Christmas present, the best one in the world, but I can't tell you what it is yet. I love you."

John swallowed uncomfortably when he heard about Sherlock's attempted suicide, feeling guilty for leaving him on his own, but at the same time, he was relieved that Sherlock had just left instead of trying to stick through that abuse. "I'm proud of you, you know, f'r being strong, keeping going without me." There was a knock at the door, and John called for the guest to come in. "'nthea's here. I'll see you soon, 'kay? I prom'se. I love you."

Anthea helped John to his feet, checking his alcohol level with a breathalyzer she apparently kept or brought with her, and determined that he was alright to go to Mycroft's place and not the hospital. "It's good to see you again, Dr. Watson," she smiled. "Shall we?"

"Mm," John moaned, and headed down the stairs leaning on her somewhat. "This 's embarrassing," he said with a tiny giggle. "'S good to be back, though, 's good to be back." He helped her load himself into the back of the car, and did his best to stay awake until he could fall asleep in Sherlock's (or whoever's) arms. The rolling thunder outside was helping, increasing every time he started to nod off. Eventually, the car pulled up outside, and Mycroft himself was holding the umbrella to welcome John inside. "Thanks," John muttered. "Sorry 'bout being drunk."

"As I understand it, that's hardly your fault," Mycroft reassured him. The door closed behind him, and John shrugged off his coat, just in time to hear running heavy footfalls coming in his direction. Mycroft stepped out of the way to allow Liam to tackle-hug John, knocking them both to the floor with an undignified thud, Liam pressing John's head to his chest and hugging him tightly.

"I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you," he was saying, holding John so tightly it was hard to breathe and kissing the top of his head, his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. "I love you so much and I'm so glad you're back please never leave never ever ever leave again, I missed you, I needed you, we needed you, I love you, you're amazing and perfect and handsome and I love you!"

"I love you too," John said, muffled by Liam's shirt. "But I would like t' breathe, you know," he added, pulling away slightly. "My God, I didn't realize how much I missed you." He belched, the taste of whiskey once again coming up, and he felt a little bit sick, shuddering slightly and pushing Liam off him. "Might be sick. I dunno." Liam hugged him again and helped him to his feet, and John leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths and trying to stay upright.

"Would you care for a cold shower, John, or would you prefer to go straight back to bed here?" Mycroft was, as always, polite, but there was a definite tinge of exasperation in his voice, but mingled with relief. Or perhaps John was just imagining that.

"Think I'm good for bed," John muttered.

"Me, too," Liam grinned and ran off to his bedroom with a childlike giggle, bare feet padding happily away. Mycroft smiled sadly and helped John up the stairs, handing him a pair of pyjamas, and nodding.

"He has missed you enormously," the older Holmes said. "There are days that he will seem almost normal before he turns to speak to you and, realizing you're not there, he becomes nonverbal for the rest of the day. All of them have done this, though Liam cries. Other days, he's numb from the start, listless and apathetic." Again, Mycroft sighed. "I understand that it was beyond your control, I simply wish to impress upon you how…fragile he is at present. Far more than he seems."

John sighed, too. "I know. 'm surprised at how good he seems, I wuddn'a been so well, even with Harry or someone." He waited until Mycroft turned his back before sliding off his clothes and into the very comfortable blue pyjamas, though he almost fell down on more than one occasion and wound up leaning on the wall. "'m not sure Jack was okay, t' be honest." He had the feeling that his current drunkenness hadn't been uncommon, and that it would take time to wean himself off the poison.

Staggering to Sherlock and company's room, he had to use the wall to hold himself up, but eventually, he made it. "'s bedtime," he mumbled, and half-fell into the bed, not even awake enough to pull the covers over him, not sober enough to care. But that was alright, as arms wrapped around him and pulled the blankets up. "Thanks," he whispered. "I love you 'n I'm sorry."

Liam kissed him on the head and began stroking John's hair. "I know, I forgive you. I love you, too." He clung to him just as hard as he'd clung to Hamish, gently but desperately, protectively. Liam hummed soothingly, no tune in particular, just idly humming as he ran his fingers through John's hair. "I love you, my angel. I…love…youuuu." He waited until John drifted off, safe in his arms, before he felt comfortable enough to do so himself. And for once in the last few months, there were no dreams of darkness and torment.

John woke up with his head pounding and arms wrapped around him. He didn't feel all that bad, actually, all things considering. Quite the opposite. He felt needed, wanted, and loved, and that in itself brought some light to him. Looking around the room, it was really remarkable how Sherlock had left his imprint but how the others had made their little marks too. Of course, this had always been Sherlock's room, ever since he was a child, left virtually unchanged since he was a teenager. But in the corner was a toybox and small table, upon which lay scattered crayons and paper, primitive drawings Liam had produced. Along one of the walls sat a television, a video game system, and such titles as Assassin's Creed, Little Big Planet Karting, The Sims 3, and Call of Duty. It wasn't hard to guess whose game was whose, although to all appearances, Sherlock didn't play video games. John smiled at the art corner, with lots of pictures of himself scribbled, sometimes with wings, sometimes without, but always there.

John was thirsty, and tried to move Sherlock's arm without waking him so he could get up to get a glass of water, but a mumble and a shift kept him down. "I've got a hangover," he whispered. "I'd really like to get a glass of water, please." More sleepy muttering was the answer, but before long, Sherlock (or whoever) was asleep again, and John padded out to get his water.

Louis the cat was waiting at the bottom of the stair and approached him cautiously. "It's alright, it's only me. I wondered where you'd got to." He kneeled down as Louis came closer, just within arm's reach, and began to sniff at him gently before nudging his head on John's hand. "Hey there, boy, it's good to see you again." He stroked the feline for several minutes, during which Louis seemed to start to remember John again and rubbed on him with ever-increasing vigor. "Yeah, I missed you, too," John smiled before remembering why he was there and finished going into the kitchen, pouring himself some water, and drinking it.

Going back upstairs to Sherlock's room, he got back into bed, the long arms wrapping around him differently, now, and John supposed it must have been Liam earlier and now it wasn't. John kissed him on the nose and sighed, for once, almost happy.

Sherlock smiled softly. "Hello. It's good to see you." He sighed and stretched, shifting himself slightly, and placed one hand on John's chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Good to know you're alive. Safe. With me." And the steady rhythms of life were, in fact, helping Sherlock feel comforted and safe. "I may not be able love you in the romantic or sexual sense, John, but I do care about you. Enormously." He moved to put his head on John's shoulder, and continued. "The fragile life I have is empty without you. Completely empty and devoid of anything that I want." He was quiet for a moment before continuing. "I only had one thing I wanted for Christmas, just one thing. And I have it here, with me, right now." He chuckled slightly. "Sentiment. So much sentiment. A vulnerability that, in your case, I find myself not minding."

The comment about not being able to love stung. "I think you do love me, you just don't know what it's like because you've never felt it before. I mean, you said yourself under hypnosis, _I love him but I'm not in love with him_. That's not the same as not being able to love, Sherlock. I know you and I know you can and do love, you just have a funny way of showing it." John linked his hand in Sherlock's and rubbed his thumb along Sherlock's hand. "You just work different, that's all. And even if it's just like family or something, the fact you care about me at all means so much to me. You took that fall for me, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too, yeah, but it was me you said goodbye to."

Sherlock internally winced, but accepted what John said. "I did say that, didn't I?" He pulled away ever so slightly, still keeping his hand inside John's, but growing slightly distant. "I suppose it's true, if not conventionally so." _I suppose that part of me that's meant to govern that isn't as broken as I'd assumed._ He closed his eyes and leaned half-sideways and half-back. He'd not slept more than three hours a night since John had been suppressed and Jack had come forward, and it taking its toll. Dark circles under Sherlock's eyes were the most prominent expression, but there was a weariness to his body language as well. He'd had nightmares almost every night, terrible monstrous visions of rot and filth and screaming haunting him. But last night, with John beside him, he'd dreamed of happier things, and he'd slept a full night._ I really do need him more than I thought, evidently._ "We bought you Christmas presents, by the way. Just in case you made it back."

"You didn't have to do that," John smiled. "I mean, I obviously haven't gotten you anything." He moved back towards Sherlock, following him, more or less, and leaned against him. "I mean, if you wouldn't mind too much, I could go with Mycroft or Anthea to get some. I guess I have to get something for Harry, too." He sighed deeply. "I guess you could say Christmas snuck up on me this year."

Sherlock chuckled pathetically at that. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you could." He leaned back over, letting his head fall onto John's shoulder, and shut his eyes. "I've missed the physical proximity, the warmth, the trust." He was quiet for a few seconds, having nearly drifted off once more, and then he muttered three words before falling asleep again. "I've missed _you_."

With Sherlock resting on him so peacefully, John didn't want to get up or do anything else right then. It wasn't Liam, it wasn't Avery—this was all 100% Sherlock, needing him at that moment. John smiled. In his mind, he hadn't been gone at all, but in his heart, he knew he'd been away for a very long and dangerous time, and that it was a miracle that Sherlock was alright. But at the same time, it was disappointing. When he was with John, Sherlock was depressed, moody, intermittently suicidal, and in anguish, but here, he seemed less so. In Baker Street, Sherlock would come to John and tell him he needed a reason to continue to live and would you please hold me? John hadn't seen anything like that happen here. Which is not to say it didn't.

_He doesn't need you, after all, not when he has Mycroft. He was better without you._

John flinched and curled up slightly at the sound of Jack's voice, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, clinging to him desperately in the semi-darkness, and shivering himself into a psychological hole as Jack just didn't stop bashing him, pointing out how much better Sherlock had been and even how happy Liam had seemed after months without contacting his best friend.

Sherlock's eyes opened at the trembling touch, and saw that John lay, eyes wide open, next to him, and the taller man was reminded of the fact that John was a haunted man. He pulled him closer and did what he himself would have needed, just hugging him and whispering that John would be fine, that the voice wasn't real and what it was saying didn't matter. Liam was sobbing inside of him, and Avery was not sure what to do, but he held on anyway, until John's eyes closed and his body relaxed. Then, Sherlock allowed himself to fall asleep again.

What woke them both up was the clatter of dishes and the smell of fried eggs, as Mycroft brought in breakfast for the both of them. "Breakfast in bed," he said, watching his brother untangle himself from John, who looked bleary-eyed and mildly confused. "I thought it would be a comfort."

Sherlock didn't say anything, simply started eating his and making sure John did the same. It was delicious, of course, and not likely something Mycroft had prepared himself, but the thought made Sherlock feel a bit better. The juice was fresh and the tomato equally so, and it was clear this was not a cheap meal. But with Mycroft, it never was.

John sheepishly poked at the egg, not feeling terribly hungry, but trying. Jack was now silent and had been all night, after Sherlock pulled him close, but it still left a bad taste in John's mouth and a horrible nausea. He very nearly didn't even bite into his sausage, but once he did, he realized he didn't know when he'd last eaten and that he was starving.

"This is delicious," he said around toast. "Absolutely delicious." He ravenously finished off his meal in record time before letting out a huge belch, which caused a fit of giggles for both Sherlock and John. "Yup, still good," he laughed before sliding back down in bed and smiling. "Oh, that was amazing."

Sherlock smiled, too. "Yes, it was. I have a feeling Mycroft spared no expense." He settled down before blinking hard, and Avery's delighted sneer came across his face. "Hello, handsome, it's good to see you back. Sorry I wasn't up earlier, it's getting tricky recently." He picked up John's hand and respectfully kissed it. "And I'm only barely in control now, if I'm honest."

John reached over and kissed Avery. "I'm sorry, oh, God, I'm sorry, I don't blame you, I don't, just, don't feel guilty about it, I'm here now and that's what counts." He felt the need to absolve Avery of the guilt of bringing Jack forward for such a long time, and if Avery was only barely in control, he needed to do it now. "I'm—it's not your fault, you had no way to know that was the on switch, I love you so much…" He kissed him again, crying a little bit.

"I don't blame myself," Avery said simply, kissing John again. "I blame Moriarty." John's lips tasted of tomato and beans, which Avery didn't mind one bit, but found a little bit strange. "Delicious, John, you're delicious." He swayed where he sat and shut his eyes. "Damn, I'm fa…" He rubbed his face. "So, what's the plan for the day?" It was Sherlock. "I don't really want to split up, if you don't mind, I was thinking perhaps a film marathon or…something? Stay here."

John smiled. "Films are okay with me. Maybe get some takeaway or something, well, have Mycroft bring it." He had to admit he did feel a little bit silly, cuddling in bed at his age, in his boyfriend's brother's house, but it was what he needed. "I'm not even going to try to guess what it is you three got me." He chuckled slightly. "Although I'm pretty sure the sort of thing Avery may have gotten." John felt a little bit heavy-hearted about that still, that Avery's main focus was sex and murder, but part of him knew that John could help him, change him, or if not that, keep him under control. "I have no idea what film, though. Can you pick?"

Sherlock winced slightly. "I was hoping you'd pick, honestly. A lack of your company has made me submissive to your decisions, I'm afraid." A flash of a smile broke out and Liam said "I'll pick!" before rising and going to his stack of Disney DVDs. "Let's watch Robin Hood! And then The Little Mermaid! And then Aristocats! And and and then we can watch The Jungle Book!" He was so excited that he knocked the stack over, and they tumbled to the floor in a mess. "Um, oops, I didn't mean to do that." He flopped to the floor, too, staring helplessly at the pile, and when John came over to help him clean up, Liam burst into tears and hugged John tightly. "I thought you were gone forever, I thought you'd left, I thought I'd never see you again, I was so scared and so sad for so long and no one ever came to help and I'm sorry, I missed you so much, so much, you're my favourite person ever except maybe My, and I missed you so much and I love you just as much as I missed you and you know how much I love you…"

"Shh, shh, it's okay, Liam, I'm here now." He cradled Liam's head, rubbing his back and rocking him gently. "I'm here now, and I don't think I'll leave again unless someone sings that French lullaby." John realized that no one but Avery had ever seen the switch-trigger on, and he knew that if Sherlock was watching, he needed to let both him and Liam know. "You have to promise you'll never sing that song when I'm around, okay? Moriarty made it make me go to sleep, and I don't know how to wake up again." Liam nodded and John pulled away from the hug. "Let's be happy today, okay? Let's watch those films and we can clean this up later."

"Okay," Liam said softly, and put the first DVD in before sitting beside the chair set up in front of it. "You get to sit in the chair." He was texting Mycroft to ask him to bring up popcorn, and slid his phone back into his pocket. "Thank you, angel. For coming back to me before Christmas." Liam placed his head next to John's leg and pulled his blanket around the both of them. "I promise I will make this a good Christmas, not like the bad Christmas." Then he fell quiet as the popcorn arrived and the films began.

John watched in silence, happy to be himself again and doing something with Sherlock/Avery/Liam again. He smiled, watching the films, reminding him that Liam was someone precious to be cherished, and by extension Avery, as well, not someone to be mistreated as Jack had done. He suspected the scars were far deeper than Liam or Sherlock were showing, and he stroked Liam's hair until the film ended and the disc needed changing.

Somehow, Liam managed to stay dominant throughout all four films, and when they were done, he declared he wanted to go out for McDonald's ice cream. John's smile got bigger. "Of course we can, you and me. I'll have to take a shower first, but yes, I'd love that."

"Yay! Good!" Liam reached over and hugged John tightly. "You smell stinky and both our faces are itchy. But I love you anyway." He held onto him until John pulled himself away, and settled in to go to his own bathroom to shower and shave while John was.

He began humming, but cut himself off. "No, John says not to sing that song anymore so Jack doesn't wake up," he said aloud. "I don't want Jack to wa…to wake…to wake up…" He felt his mind starting to float away, remembering being stripped and muzzled, and sat down in the running water, rocking back and forth and clutching his knees. "I don't want Jack, I don't want Jack, I don't want Jack," he kept muttering to himself. Liam's eyes were wide as he forgot the whole reason for his shower, instead cowering in fear of bad memories and dark possibilities.

John finished his shower and shave, both badly needed, and returned to Sherlock's room to find Liam missing. "Sherlock? Liam? Avery?" He looked around, but no answer. "Mycroft! I can't find Sherlock!" He leaned over the banister to the upstairs, able to see Mycroft preparing for bed.

"What? He said he was going to shower, is he not there?"

"Hang on a minute, let me check." John went to the bathroom door and knocked before entering, hearing the water running. When he arrived, he saw Liam muttering and distant, rocking and afraid, and John turned off the water and kneeled down in front of his friend. "Liam, it's alright. Jack's not coming back, I'm here." He wiped a bit of soap from Liam's hair and took the shower head down to rinse him off. "I'm here, I'll never do anything to hurt you, I promise." When he was done rinsing him, he wrapped a towel around him as best he could and hugged him. "Shh, it's okay, Liam, it's okay. I promise I'll protect you. I'm your guardian angel, remember?" Liam quieted down and stopped rocking. "Now. What do you say you dry off, get dressed, and we go get that ice cream, hmm? My treat."

Liam was still unsettled, still feeling like there was a dark shadow inside him, one threatening to swallow him up. His eyes stung from the soap, but he couldn't close them, not even to blink. The water went off and then on again, all around him and then off once more, and something soft and warm was put on him. _I'm your guardian angel_, he heard, and that helped break the spell. Not entirely, as the cold shadow still threatened to swallow him, but he felt a hand reaching into the darkness, a hand radiating pure light. "…John?" It was barely more than a whisper, just slightly softer than the muttering, but it was clear that Liam was terrified.

John cringed a bit. If none of the three of them were as open about their pain than John had previously thought, he/they must be extremely tormented. Not that John wasn't doing his own share of hiding how he felt, but he had to be strong for Sherlock and his alters. He needed them to see him being brave. John rubbed Liam's back, unsure of what to say. "You'll be alright, I promise," he settled for. He knew he wasn't always going to make it, that he may have just made a promise he couldn't keep, but he'd be damned if he was going to do anything less than try. "I love you, all of you. And I owe you far more of a debt than I can ever repay."

"We love you, too." Liam was quiet as he pulled his t-shirt and jeans on, slipping his arms through his coat and sliding on his scarf. It was clear he was still haunted by the memories that had shaken him up in the shower, and he slipped his hand into John's shyly. He was very reserved, more so than usual, and only slightly forced a smile when he was ready to go, picking up his umbrella in the event that it rained. "And can we see a film? I want to see The Hobbit but I didn't want to see it without you. Please." The last word was a whisper, and his eyes were shining with tears.

John's heart was breaking to see Liam distressed like that. Even the happiest, most contented of Sherlock's personalities was upset, and that made John just as upset. But he had to hide it for his friend, he had to pretend he was fine. "Yeah, of course we can." He smiled. "Shall we go?" Liam nodded and they went downstairs and into the cab which Mycroft had thoughtfully hired.

They arrived at McDonald's, and John ordered for the both of them, two ice cream cones and a water. They sat, and Liam was still very quiet, licking his dessert as if watching and waiting for John to do something. As if studying them. "You can tell me what's wrong, you know. I'm your friend, you don't have to worry, I'm not going to hold anything against you, if that's what you're worried about. And I won't hurt you."

Liam bit the top off his ice cream. "I'm…I'm okay," he lied. "No, I'm not okay, not at all. I had a bad awake dream in the shower about…about…about the Scorpion Monster, the Avery in you." He couldn't say _Jack_, couldn't bring himself to think of it, and had no idea why he'd settled on scorpion. But something about the arachnid had reminded him of Jack, and he gulped. "I'm scared you're not you, that you're…him and you're faking so I'll trust you so you can hurt me." Liam wiped away a tear that had snuck up on him. "My head says you're not, but my heart says you might be and that scares me. But you haven't hurt me yet so I trust you." He sniffled and took a quiet few licks of the creamy treat. "And your wings are coming back, they're faint but I can see them." He sighed and frowned slightly, using his free hand to play with the edges of the table. "I don't think you're the Monster, not really, but it scares me to know he might wake up again. He hurt me a lot and he didn't think about if Sherlock or me didn't want to sex with him, he waited until Avery was awake and then did it and sometimes we woke up a little and it was scary." Then he locked eyes with John again. "I know you didn't mean it, you didn't have anything to do with it, but it still gives me bad dreams. Asleep and awake." He was crying harder now, noticeably. "He hurt me a lot and it was scary…I need another ice cream after this one…"

"Everyone has nightmares," John said, trying to comfort his friend. "I know he hurt you, and I feel pretty bad about it, I honestly do. I know you're still hurting because of what he did." He grabbed Liam's free hand and smiled. "And I will do anything I can to make up for it. Just name it."

"Never leave," Liam said simply. "Never ever." He squeezed John's hand tightly, ignoring that people were starting to stare. "Never ever ever," he whispered. He finished the rest of his first ice cream quietly, and John bought him another one immediately after, which Liam ate quite quickly, a smile returning to his face. "The sugar is making them sleep," Liam said. "But that's okay, I think, they don't mind." He popped the last bottom bit of the cone into his mouth and stood up, hugging John the instant the shorter man did so, a full hug. "I love you, John. Forever."

John wrapped his arms around Liam and buried his face in the taller man's shoulder, the rest of the world melting away, dissolving into nothing but the thin arms around him. "I love you, too, for just as long as forever." In that moment, any fear and insecurity vanished, and he felt completely whole. "I love you, so much. So, so much." He didn't want to leave Liam's arms, and felt a soft, gentle kiss on the top of his head.

Then, suddenly self-conscious, he pulled away and grinned. "Now, are we going to see the Hobbit or not?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" Liam jumped up and down, grinning wildly and grabbing John's arms, hugging him again. "Of course, silly, we have to see it!" He sat down and pulled out his phone, checking the film times, and finding the next showing. They had just enough time to get there before the film began, and they caught a cab as soon as they could.

Of course, they shared popcorn with extra butter, sitting in the perfect seats, and waiting patiently until the previews were done. At first, Liam couldn't sit still, but before long, he was completely entranced by the film, almost hypnotised by it, and John had to admit that aside from the lead looking near-identical to himself, it was a spectacular film. Neither of them realized just how quickly time was passing, and before they noticed, the credits were rolling. "More!" Liam folded his arms grumpily. "I want more! I want to see the spiders and the wood-elves and the dragon and Laketown and all of that!"

"They'll be in the next ones, you know." He patted Liam on the knee and smiled. "Come on, let's pick up your rubbish so we can go home, they're waiting on us to clean." John stood and took his garbage, and tumped it in the trash, placing his 3D glasses in the recycling bin, and heading towards the toilets. Liam didn't follow, possibly fading, possibly not, and, while John was reluctant to leave him, he had aa Coke and a half in the theater and really needed to go.

John came back to find Liam cringing against the wall with several women—and a man—taking photographs of him, the bright flash disorientating him and causing him to moan "stop" quietly. He was rather dazed by the time John managed to fend the impromptu paparazzi off, and he was blinking wildly at the spots in his vision. "They didn't stop, I asked them to stop and they didn't stop, that wasn't nice, why didn't they stop?"

The doctor rubbed Liam's back, trying to get him to relax as they walked out of the cinema. "Some people are just rude and don't listen." John smiled sadly. That _some people_ included Avery, after all, who John was currently in a relationship with. And deep down, John couldn't figure out quite why he'd asked. He'd known that any relationship with Avery was going to be a permanent one, even one other than marriage, that the only way to get out of it if he could was to have Avery be the one to break it off. But with Avery's temper, there might be blood if that were to happen, and most definitely if John were to try to leave.

So why had he asked to be in a relationship with the serial killing third of Sherlock? Was it because his attempts to be with Sherlock as he was weren't working? That he was taking Avery as the next best thing? John hadn't forgotten how insistent Avery had been on shagging him, no matter how many times or how enthusiastically John said no. He'd given him a chance more out of exasperation than actual desire, but that had cemented it and now he'd never get away. Even Sherlock thought it wasn't a good idea to give Avery any sort of hold over anyone, so why hadn't he listened?

Not that he was regretting it. He loved Avery with all of his heart, almost as much as he loved Sherlock, and, in a different way, Liam. But he knew deep down that he was treading on thin ice with that, and his heart had made a dangerous decision.

He looked up to see Liam tracing the shapes left in water streaks on the window of the cab. John couldn't help but smile at his childlike wonder, amazed at everything before him, seeing the world as if for the first time every time. It reminded John of how beautiful things could be, and how all he needed to do was to stop for a bit just to look at the way the small things in nature worked to ease some of his anxiety.

Liam sensed John watching him and turned around with a grin. "Hello, John!" He twitched his nose slightly, feeling a possible sneeze coming on, and managed to hold it off by shutting his eyes. "A sneeze was com—" He failed to hold it in and sneezed loudly, blinking dizzily and wiping his nose on a handkerchief from Mycroft. "The sneeze came anyway, sorry." He stretched slightly and leaned over onto John. "Avery wants a cigarette but I told him no and that when he wakes up he can have one but not while I'm awake." He closed his eyes and apparently fell asleep, rousing himself groggily when they arrived back at Mycroft's house.

Liam went first into the house, and he gasped in awe as he saw the decorations which had been put up while he and John were away. Zap, Natalia, Molly, and Mycroft had put up fairy lights everywhere, set up the tree, and placed many, many presents under it in the small time Sherlock and John had been out. "Christmas," Liam whispered, breaking into a grin. "It's Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!" He began to jump around, giving enormous hugs to everyone in the room, and flung himself onto the sofa with a giggle, staring at all the bright lights and decorations on the tree as if he'd never seen them before.

John had been in on it, of course, and couldn't help but grin at Liam's infectious enthusiasm. He'd texted his list for Sherlock, Avery, and Liam to Mycroft to pick up while they were out, with instructions to take the money from his next paycheck, and Mycroft had clearly done as requested. "Thanks," he mouthed, and Mycroft returned the smile. John squatted down beside Liam, who was running his fingers along Mycroft's crisply-wrapped presents. "Hey, Liam, we're going to open presents later, do you want to go get dressed?"

Liam tore his eyes away from the presents labelled in Mycroft's immaculate script and looked at John, confused. "I am dressed," he said simply. "But is there s…someth…something…ngh." He blinked wildly and reached over, cupping John's face in his hand. "Hello. Are we doing something special for Christmas?" Avery's lips met John's, tenderly and considerately. "After unwrapping all of this, I would like to unwrap you." That glint came into his eyes, the sparkle of mischief and lust that only Avery ever showed. "And I'm sure that after four and a half months, you'd love to unwrap me." Avery grinned.

John gave off a sexually frustrated giggle. "God, yes," he smiled. "I'm surprised you want to wait that long, actually." Avery licked his teeth and said something about saving the best present for last, and kissed John again, knocking him flat to his back and shoving his hand down John's trousers, wrapping a leg around John's, and running his other hand through John's hair. John shuddered, feeling for the first time in what was evidently a long time that desire to be one with Avery, physically, and put his hands to Avery's head.

"Oh, um, I, never mind," came Molly's voice, and Avery pulled away, much to John's distress. "I'll come back." She turned and walked away.

* * *

><p><strong>Molly's blog:<strong>

I really didn't want to see that…John and…and…Avery, in front of the Christmas tree…

Um…I think I've lost my appetite a bit. I'm still going to eat to be polite, and they didn't get, um, well, yeah. Avery said he was just "prepping John", but that's…

Sorry, I'm a little bit uncomfortable with them together like that. I think it might be because I still

Never mind.

* * *

><p>"No," John mumbled to Avery. "You can't just do that and leave me hanging!" He sat up and rebuttoned his trousers, moving to the sofa and shoving a pillow over his lap. Avery just stood there, grinning and staring at John like a predator gloating over his caged prey. "You're just going to—argh."<p>

"More where that came from," Avery smiled. "Consider it a teaser." John glared at him, half-playfully, and that only made Avery smile larger. For his part, he wasn't even trying to hide his erection, and for the most part, he never had, following a philosophy of _You don't like it? Look away, I'm not inconveniencing myself for you._ Avery let out a proper laugh at John's whimper of frustration, and just then, Mycroft entered the room.

"Dinner is served," he said politely, noting the obvious switch to Avery. "Do be on your best behaviour, brother. Be on _Sherlock's_ best behaviour."

"Fine, fine, whatever." Avery took John by the hand and led him to the dining table, raising a delighted eyebrow at the massive amount of food; puddings and turkey and breads and salad, everything to be expected from a Christmas dinner for seven, though there was a deliberate lack of alcohol as Avery had gotten into it one afternoon while alone and Mycroft had come to find him face down unconscious, clearly having ignored the fact he wasn't meant to be drinking for medical reasons. Instead, a myriad of juices and sparkling beverages were arrayed around the table, in front of Mycroft's well-chosen seating arrangements. Avery poured himself a cranberry juice and sat down between John and Zapharia. "You're not going to make us say grace or some stupid shit like that, are you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "No, I won't, but I will ask that we respect our elders," he nodded at his mother, "And allow women to be served first. After that, we may tuck in to our hearts' content."

"Oh, good," Avery said, half-sarcastically, folding his arms and waiting almost politely.

John, for his part, was perfectly happy to wait for the women to get their food; Mrs. Holmes followed by Natalia, then Molly, and Zap. John was waiting to relax before standing to get his dinner, which the Holmes brothers both seemed to pick up on, and while Mycroft was merciful, Avery was not, stroking John's leg with his foot. Eventually, he was granted a reprieve when Avery got up to get his food, returning with large heaping platefuls of everything, favouring the puddings and, oddly, waiting for John before he began eating.

"This is delicious," John said once he'd gotten his food and threatened to stab Avery with his fork if he didn't cut out the touching.

"Yes, I had Mrs. Hudson's pudding recipe," Mycroft said. "And the turkey has been spiced with Zapharia's special herbal blend." Sherlock was the only Holmes to have not participated in the cooking, with Mrs. Holmes baking the breads, and Molly had contributed the desserts, while Natalia had chosen the beverages.

"Well, everything's absolutely brilliant," John smiled, tucking another bite of dressing into his already mostly-full mouth. "Thanks for all of this." One year before, he'd been tied up in a warehouse, raped and tortured, not knowing if he'd ever see the light of day and half-begging to be killed rather than have it go on. The sudden memory made him feel sick, and he excused himself for a moment, barely making it to the bathroom before violently vomiting, flashbacks returning, and curling up on the floor, more in his memories than in present day.

Avery had sensed that something was wrong when he saw John go pale and his hands started to shake. He waited a few moments before following, and opened the door, kneeling down, feeling Liam crying and Sherlock starting to awaken in a minor panic, also remembering one year before. He stroked John's head and tried to speak gently. "John? I'm here. I'm here." Sherlock was growing more and more awake, and Avery felt himself fade, but the stream of speech was uninterrupted. "I know what you're thinking about, I know what's happening. I feel that myself, so much. That's why I need you so badly, to know you can protect me. I'll protect you, too, as best I can." He sat down and pulled John's limp and terrified form towards him, pressing him to his chest, letting John hear his heartbeat, more Sherlock now than anyone. "We need each other. Fundamentally. I care for you and you for me, and I will never, ever let him hurt you again if there is anything I can do about it." He lightly kissed John's forehead. "But please, John, I need you to come back to now. To Mycroft's house, Christmas 2012, to safety and peace and Mother's delicious pies. Come out of the past, John. Come back to me."

Sherlock's voice was cutting through the warehouse like the knife that had gone through John's skin, except it was slashing the darkness, the pain, the horror, and leaving only safety and peace. John whimpered, the only sound he could make, and was finally able to blink as Sherlock's steady heartbeat thudded in his ear. He was still paralysed by fear, still on the edge of being sick again, but the way Sherlock was stroking his hair and holding him made him feel far more peaceful, and even his boyfriend's deep voice was helping.

It took fifteen minutes of John fighting dark metal jungle-plants and knives and whispers and nightmares for him to realize where he actually was, that he was safe and in Sherlock's arms. He let out a long sigh, shaky, but coming back, though he still couldn't get out more than a whimper, and there was something inside his head telling him this comfort was just a trick.

Another fifteen minutes and Mycroft entered quietly, handing Sherlock a small bottle—John's medication. He'd had Anthea retrieve it with the utmost haste, realizing that John had failed to bring it with him. "I've put both your and his food in the refrigerator for later consumption," he whispered, and Sherlock nodded as Mycroft left. He unscrewed the lid and took out one of the capsules, holding it over John's face and gently breaking open the pill, letting the medicine fall into John's mouth, before closing it. John instinctively swallowed, and Sherlock rubbed his head to soothe him.

"Shh, John. I'm here. You're safe. You're safe." Truth be told, Sherlock's rear end was getting numb, but he wasn't about to get up or adjust, not if it disturbed his friend and probably the only one who could understand his own moments of traumatic distress. He'd run out of words and just rocked John, reciting random wisps of poetry, waiting for the blackness clouding his conductor of light to pass.

John's hands wouldn't work. His face wouldn't work. Something was holding him tight and still from the inside, something he couldn't fight. Moriarty, or the memory of him, held him in place, froze John like liquid nitrogen. Sherlock's warmth was helping, as it always did, and a thought occurred to John as he heard Sherlock's impromptu poetry recital: _ I'm going to be alright. He's saved me._

He blinked, and a few tears fell, the declaration of love and gratitude for his rescue coming out in four small drops. John took a shuddering sigh and his hand closed gently around Sherlock's. "Mmmmnh," he groaned. "Llllove…"

There it was again. John's _I love you_s never failed to hurt, never failed to remind Sherlock that he could not return the sentiment, and that he'd tried and failed to do so. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy hearing them, it was that not being able to reciprocate was painful, always made him feel that John deserved someone with a better heart than the one he'd grown so attached to. "I know," Sherlock said, rubbing John's head again. "I know." He untangled himself as soon as John seemed to feel capable of supporting himself, and sat him up. "Shall we have pie and gifts now? A properly commercialised Christmas? A good one? I'm excited to see what it is you've gotten, and just as excited to see your face when you see their gifts."

John's colour was coming back, but he was still faint and hazy, and he spent a few seconds feeling the bathroom rug in his hands, trying to ground himself. "Uh…" He swallowed a few times, staring at Sherlock, trying to force himself to realize that he was fine. "Fine," he whispered. "I mean, not fine, but fineish. I think." He reached out for Sherlock's hand, telling himself Sherlock was real and that he only had a bad flashback, nothing more. "Would you mind if I had some of Mycroft's scotch? It might help a bit."

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. After all, if he was liable to drown his agony in morphine or cocaine, what was a little alcohol for John's sake? "I do mind, but I also understand. Understanding's more important." He helped John to his feet and led him downstairs, where everyone had gathered around the tree. John poured himself a drink and sat beside Sherlock. Neither of them were really paying attention until it was their turn for gifts.

John opened his gift from Liam first, a large quilt, hand-embroidered images of cats, stick figure people, flowers, peace symbols, and other things on it. Above it, in Liam's writing, _Pour éviter ailes mon ange de plus en plus froid. _"To prevent my angel's wings from getting cold," Sherlock translated. "Liam drew the images and wrote the words, Mother did the actual embroidery work."

"Aww, that's sweet," Zap beamed, looking at it. "That's adorable!"

"It's lovely," John said, draping it around his shoulders. "Really, actually, very nice." It was soft, and, indeed, very warm, the sort of quilt one would give a child. John stood up, blinked a little as the alcohol had made him slightly lightheaded, and picked up the gift for Liam. "I guess we're doing Liam first? Yeah. Here. I'm pretty sure he'll like it."

It was a stuffed animal with a light panel in its back that would project light onto the ceiling. Sherlock smiled softly, clearly relaying the emotions of Liam in a much more muted way. "I know Liam's scared of the dark, so maybe that'll help. I couldn't decide between that one and the monkey." John returned the smile. "Yeah, I guess we can try it out tonight, see if that works better than that nightlight."

Sherlock reached over and hugged John, as Liam wished to do. "Thank you, he says." Sherlock pulled back and then handed John another box, labelled from Avery, and he was blushing slightly. "I've no idea what's in it, but I have a suspicion given his usual sort of gift. It might be wise just to tear the corner of the paper off so you can see what it is, and decide from there." John shrugged and followed the order, turning bright red when he saw the label on the box within, a package of arousal lubricant. "I thought as much," Sherlock said awkwardly. "You, um, you have a present for him, I assume? Something a bit more appropriate for family gatherings?"

John could feel the heat on his face as he cleared his throat and put the box of lubricants behind his chair and sort of under it. A small embarrassed laugh that more resembled a squeak came forth, and he stood up. "Right. Um. Avery's gift, okay, let's see…" He picked up a small box, the size of Sherlock's open hand, and handed it to him. "For display purposes only," John pointed out. Sherlock's eyes shot up as he registered the beautiful knife inside, delicately crafted in steel and exquisitely designed. It wasn't hinged, as a deterrent against Avery actually using it, so John hoped he'd have some common sense about it, and John had his own reasons for avoiding folding blades. He took another swig of his whiskey at that thought. "It was kind of hard to think of something he'd like, given our, uh, discussion right before Jack came along."

"It's beautiful," Sherlock said, eyeing the handle and the diagonal blade. "I'm not sure when you had the time to find this one specifically, but thank you." He rose and crossed to pick up a present that could only be a CD set. It was something personal, something he'd never done before, a present containing his heart on precious plastic. "Go on, open it," he said, handing the gift to John. Everyone had picked up on how special this moment was, and not even Mycroft knew what was in the package. John stared when he saw it at first, not realizing what it was. Then it became clear.

"This…this is…"

"Yes." Sherlock smiled softly. The gift to John, the most precious thing he hadn't already given him, was recordings of every song he had ever composed. Six CDs, every song played by Sherlock himself with either Mycroft, Zapharia, or someone hired by Mycroft as accompaniment. Sherlock on violin, Mycroft piano, Zap flute, and the occasional other instrument. It wasn't just the one-instrument songs John heard Sherlock play around with in the living room, but they were there, too. These were grand masterpieces forged through years of pain, triumph, excitement, loneliness, and friendship. Sherlock's soul.

"Wow," John said simply. He was overwhelmed by the trust and intimacy of such a gift, probably as dear to Sherlock as John's gift of dog tags had been to the ex-soldier. "I leave and you get produc…" John saw what the final track was entitled, and he fell silent, tearing up. _My Reason to Live: Ode to My Defender_. "Sorry, I…" He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, desperately clinging to him. "I love you so much, Sherlock, so much, I never thought I'd love you this much, I didn't think it was possible to love anyone this much, I never ever want to be apart from you, ever again…"

Sherlock cleared his throat, mildy embarrassed by John's clearly alcohol-enhanced emotional state. "John, I…" He was cut off by Liam placing a kiss on John's head, right at the hairline. "I love you, perfect angel," he whispered, returning the hug and rocking John back and forth. "No one could ever be better than you. Not ever. You are perfect. The most perfect person I've ever known." Liam began humming one of his own lullabies, rubbing John's head and cuddling him.

A few minutes passed before Sherlock returned, with a smile, pulling away, noticing for the first time that everyone else had dispersed. He took John's hands and examined his eyes, attempting to gauge if his friend was alright. "You don't have to give me anything for Christmas. Moriarty gave you back to me, and I wanted nothing more than that."

"Well, too bad, 'cause I bought you some books." John smiled and pointed to the one gift left. "Whoops," he added. "Guess I'm a bit more drunk than I thought if I'm spilling secrets." He rose and handed Sherlock the package, watching as Sherlock opened it. "I know you like her stuff, so I got you a set." _Agatha Christie: The Complete Poirot_, the box declared. "Not exactly as personal as yours, but I didn't really have the time to do anything spectacular." Sherlock looked suddenly very drained and ill, pale, scrawny, and haunted, or perhaps the whiskey was making John imagine it. "Are you okay?"

"I'm never okay anymore, John," Sherlock confessed. "There are a serial killer and a child in my head. We skipped the crackers this year because I knew they would sound too much like gunshots. It's a rare thing when I can sleep without nightmares. My best friend vanished for months. I've nearly buckled to my addictions again, I nearly drowned myself, I spent two of those four and a half months back in the mental hospital, and I haven't had a case since June. I feel like the only thing I can do anymore is be here for you. Before you came back, the only thing saving me from total despair was Mycroft. Even he wasn't enough. There were days when no one was in command, I would lie in bed, eyes open but vacant, or so I'm told. More, at first. I haven't done anything with myself." Sherlock swallowed, grabbed the glass from John's hand, and finished off the contents. "I…_need_ you, John."

"You shouldn't have done that," John muttered, taking the glass back and setting it down out of Sherlock's reach. In John's mind, it was obvious that any decline had been his fault for leaving him, for promising safety and abandoning his friend. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He reached in and hugged him tightly. "I'm so, so sorry." A burst of laughter from the other room distracted John, reminding him that Sherlock's family was as good as his own, and Christmas was no time to be moping. "Now, shall we make drunken fools of ourselves in front of your mum or not?" John got a chuckle out of Sherlock with that, and stood up. "Come on, then," he smiled, taking him by the hand and leading him to the source of the jolly noises.

The rest of the evening went smoothly, finishing off dessert, John and Sherlock eating their dinners after microwave reheating, jokes and smiles and efforts to make Sherlock feel as included as he wanted to be, Liam making an appearance every so often if briefly, and a few playful butt-squeezings from Avery. Card games were played, the slightly tipsy Sherlock and Mycroft cleaning everyone else out quickly, Molly and John losing handily, much to the amusement of all concerned.

A wave of dissociative exhaustion hit Sherlock just before one in the morning, a sudden drain that sapped all his strength from him. "Time for bed, I think," he announced. Things were winding down anyway, and Natalia was preparing to leave. "Thank you, all of you, for making this Christmas one of the best I've ever had."

"We all care about you," Molly said. "We love you a lot. All three of you," she finished awkwardly. "We want to help any way we can."

"You have," Sherlock said. "Thank you." He stood up weakly and plodded up the stairs, setting up the dream-lite for Liam should he wake up, and before he thought to change into his pajamas, he was fast asleep.

John tried to stay up a bit longer, but soon he realized he wouldn't be able to. He managed to plod into the bathroom and take a quick shower before following Sherlock's lead and collapsing next to him, breathing into the person he trusted the most.

The next week few days were more a recovery to normal life for the two friends than anything else. Avery's sweet nothings whispered in the morning or the night, a visit in the shower, a surprise present of roses the day after Boxing Day. Sherlock relaxing into a better routine, but black strands of previous waking nightmares still bothering him. Liam slowly improving from a quiet, shy reserve to a happier state. John hadn't realized how hard the separation was until Mycroft explained why Sherlock had needed to return to the mental hospital. He'd only lasted a few days before he'd start to have panic attacks at the thought of John's absence, attacks that would end in screaming fits that could last for hours. A text or two from Moriarty that sent Sherlock into spiraling nothingness, so much more horrible than the screaming. He'd nearly suffocated himself with pillows trying to block the hallucinations of his father and the discordant violin. The institutionalization was voluntary, and he had improved while he was there, and now that John was back, he was making more improvements still.

Jack, too, had been under surveillance. He'd drink almost every night, acquiring illegal firearms, working out every day, keeping mostly to himself except when he'd go visit army friends he'd not seen in years. There was no contact with Harry or Jason, John's siblings, and he'd framed the pictures Avery had drawn. He'd had Mycroft and Zap take all of Sherlock and Liam's things, leaving Avery's, and had proceeded to do one or two contract "interrogations". John had thrown up at that thought.

But then on New Year's Eve, Avery and John sat in the living area of Mycroft's house (the elder Holmes had had to work late that night), and John held his hand, stroking it. "Mycroft told me what you went through after I…left." He leaned in. "I'm so sorry."

Avery thought about being angry for a moment before he changed his mind. "It's not your fault, it's mine. Get that straight. No one could have known that's what brings him up, except for Moriarty." He swallowed. "I wouldn't have done that on purpose." He stroked John's cheek. "I love you more than anything. Jack said what it was like, what he could feel, when you faded out. That terrified us." He kissed John slowly but passionately. "I don't want you to ever have to feel that again."

John clutched Avery's hand. "I don't want to feel that again, it was like…like blacking out from blood loss." He didn't want to talk about it, but knew that Avery needed to hear things from John's perspective. "It wasn't like Sherlock said happens with you, where you get dizzy or tired and then you're watching, this was just…slipping away." He shuddered. "Sorry, I don't want to scare you or make you feel guilty or anything. I just thought you should know." John rested his head on Avery's shoulder. "You know, I—" He bit his lip. "I'm glad you came along, even if it wasn't exactly the best of conditions. I love you, and you at least can love me back a bit." He frowned and slumped. "I didn't mean that, I didn't mean Sherlock can't, I know that hurts. I just…I mean, you know I'm bisexual. But you and he are the only men I've ever been in _love_ with, totally. And I know he can't love me back, and he's tried as hard as he can, and he has no idea how grateful I am that he's at least tried, but you actually succeed, even if it's only sexual with I dunno, just a tiny bit of romantic love or whatever. He can't love me like you can, and it's good to know someone can." He rubbed his eyes. "Shit, I'm making it worse."

Avery stroked John's cheek. "I understand what you mean," he said. He slid his other hand to John's thigh, smiled, and reached in for a passionate, entangling kiss. "And I'm glad to give you everything I can." Lips locked for quite some time before Avery pulled away, licked his lips, and looked John up and down with the grin that meant he was up to something. "It's nearly midnight," he said with a smile. "Shall we make our own fireworks?"

John smiled. "Of course." It had been a while, and Avery never had made good on his promise beside the tree. John wasn't exactly in the mood, so to speak, but Avery deserved a reward for his patience. Not that John wouldn't be in the right mood when they got started, because he usually was, it was just that he wasn't primed just yet.

They'd stripped and were readying the condoms and Avery's present of lube, but John felt…cold. Empty. Like it didn't have meaning today. The scars on his chest felt like they were made of neon lights, bright pink M there for all the world to see. It wasn't that he didn't want the sex, just that he felt detached about it, just going through the motions, no passion in it at all, until Avery's warm breath warmed his neck and made his hair—and other things—stand on end. "That's nice, that's lovely, that's oop—" Avery had pulled him over backwards onto the bed, semi-sinister giggling as he wrapped his hands around the front of John and massaged his cock. "Hey!" John wrestled free and turned over, head into Avery's chest, taking in his scent.

At first, the tingle and warmth had surprised John, but not in a bad way. It was adding something they didn't have before, something just for them—no Sherlock, no Jack. And, of course, Avery stroking his partner gently but firmly, wrapping his legs around John's waist, flipping him over, smothering him in kisses, and thrusting into him repeatedly reminded John just how badly he had missed this quirk of psychology.

Avery's breath grew more and more rapid as he grew more and more aroused, powered on by the sensation of the lube and John's hot flesh beneath his hands. He pressed himself to John as if to physically merge with him, forcing their bodies to become one. It was beautiful, he reflected, that such a magical form of bonding could exist between two people, let alone a psychopath and a war veteran, a killer and a doctor. They were perfect equal opposites, locked in this state of passion that no one, not even Moriarty, could ruin.

Avery still left the war wound alone, considering it holy ground, but he held John's arms above him as he dug his mouth into John's neck, legs entwining, hips grinding, spine contorting to leave that most perfect of shapes on top of John Watson. John finally started to feel the moment, returning the leg-tangle, starting to come back into his element as his well-toned abs were stroked by Avery's perpetually cold fingers. "You, John," was the only thing Avery said before nibbling at John's collarbone and caressing John's hip.

John shuddered at the touch, letting out a soft moan. He couldn't get his quip out about Avery pointing out the obvious by stating his name; every time he opened his mouth, either Avery's hand or face would be in the way. Now they were so together, so healthy for one another, that all of John's insecurities had vanished. True, Avery was a dominating arse, but he rarely looked at John with anything other than attraction, a fierce territorial gaze, choosing now to mark John with passion instead of Moriarty's pain. And yet not one year ago, they were just two men in horrible pain, recovering in hospital together from something even worse than the Fall.

There was nothing painful about Avery's affections, not this time. The fingernails digging into his side brought nothing but exhilaration, enhancing the pleasure of the moment. Their hot breath was flowing back and forth, tempo in perfect sync. The tingling warmth around and inside felt like sunlight after a frigid room. The sweat was only nectar, salty sweetness on torso and limbs, pressure, thrust, power, delicate strength all combining to make John Watson feel undeniably _loved_. Part of him wanted to cry with bliss at that feeling, that even though he wasn't perfect, someone else was treating him as though he were. "I love you," he whispered as Avery collapsed onto him, sexual energy spent with three minutes until midnight. Avery closed his eyes, smiled, and nodded.

Avery'd managed to fall asleep in the brief period of time before the actual fireworks started, fading to Sherlock as he did.

He was trapped in a small room, not unlike the one in which he'd been drugged and made to think John was dead. He was naked. There was a sense of impending danger, of something coming he wasn't going to like or be able to get away from. He tried to cover himself with his hands, shivering and nervous, but it didn't feel effective at all.

That was when the gunfire started. Bang. Bang. Bang-bang. Bang. Whistle-bang. Bang. Bang. Bang-crackle. The walls of the room fell away and he was defenseless in a war zone, the likes of which he'd never seen in person, and there was nowhere he could hide, dodging gunfire as he ran in an arbitrary direction, attempting to keep his exposed body from being damaged. But no, it was a firing squad, and John, similarly unclothed, was already dead.

In the waking world, he was twitching, gasping, and shivering with every firework that lit off, every firecracker in the street, every celebration of the new year paralysed him with fear. Every explosion of gunpowder seeped into his subconscious as a very, very bad thing which had taken everything he could be away from him.

John hadn't fallen asleep at all, and the shaking body beside him worried him. "Sherlock, Avery, Liam, whoever, you're okay." He put his hand to Sherlock's chest to try to let him feel some human contact, but it wasn't working. "Shh, you're okay, you're fine, it's just fireworks." John wrapped his arms around his friend and lover, trying to help him feel protected from whatever the danger he thought he was in was. "Come on, please wake up."

Sherlock opened his eyes with a gasping grunt and clutched John's arms almost painfully. "John? John. John?" He blinked hard, still trembling, and calmed down slightly. "Nightmare, terrible, firing squad and we were exposed, no reason, just the—" A particularly close firework went off and Sherlock jumped before freezing into horrified silence. There were tears coming from his eyes as he lay there, helpless and trying to fight off the memory of seeing "John" killed by focusing on the real living thing in front of him. "Gggk," he choked out.

"I'm here, Sherlock," John said soothingly. Another firework went off and Sherlock jumped. "It's okay, I promise." He reached over to grab Sherlock's phone and earbuds, and turned it to one of Sherlock's soothing songs, cranked the volume up, and stroked his hands and head. "You're okay. Nothing can hurt you here, I promise."

The fireworks subsided within half an hour, but Sherlock had been shalen the whole time. John would have gone to fetch Sherlock's sedative pills, but he didn't want to leave the pale and sweating man alone for even the briefest of instants, since a perceivced lack of John was what had led to this state to begin with. Instead, he kept with him, feeling a bit silly trying to comfort someone mid-panic attack while naked, but deciding it was for the best. "Shh," John cooed. "They've stopped now, the fireworks. Just sleep for now, okay? I'll be here in the morning."

Sherlock sighed and nodded painfully, as if he were in physical agony. John's touch as he soothed his head was kind and gentle, and he soon closed his eyes, falling back into a tense and dreamless sleep.

The morning brought the stillness of winter, the silence that comes when there are no birds to be heard, no insects buzzing, no rustling of leaves in trees. Just peace. Sherlock reached over, feeling strangely disconnected, not dissociated as such, just somewhere barely himself, and watched John sleep for a few moments before waking him. "Hello," he said simply and softly. "Happy new year."

"Hey," John said sleepily. "Feeling better?" Sherlock smiled in reply and John decided it would be for the most comfortable if he and Sherlock continued to lay there for another few minutes, knowing the room was cold where Sherlock was not. "You haven't got a bell or a buzzer, have you? Something to tell them to bring up some oatmeal?" It was a joke, but Sherlock seemed too distant to notice. "You okay, Sherlock? You look a bit off."

Sherlock shivered slightly and rolled back onto his side to face John. "I feel a bit funny, but nothing dangerous. Just…like I'm sitting beside my head, like my mind isn't inside me. Hard to explain." He pulled the blankets up to his chin and shut his eyes with yet another sigh. "Thank you, John. For helping, no matter what the personal cost. For helping me believe that I am not a monster, even though there are mountains of evidence to the contrary."

"I've told you already, you're the bravest, best, wisest, most honest person I know." John was disheartened to hear Sherlock think he wasn't. "Nothing's going to change that." He yawned and stretched and looked at his pile of clothing on the floor before falling back into his pillows. "Ugh, I can tell by looking the floor's cold. But I guess I can handle it." John really didn't want to get out of bed, self-conscious again about his scarring, but he knew he needed to get dressed, if for nothing else, than the breakfast he could smell wafting upstairs from the kitchen.

He pulled the blanket around him, leaving Sherlock the sheet, and inhaled sharply as his feet hit the floor. "Christ, the floor's cold!" John padded over to his suitcases, which Anthea had packed as neither John nor Sherlock had felt quite ready to be back in Baker Street at the time, pulled out some clothing, and shivered as he put them on, also cold. He moved back to the bed and curled up again, trying to keep warm. "Your turn," he teased.

Sherlock rolled out of bed, also keeping a blanket around him, and selected his light blue shirt for the day's suit. The fact that he'd chosen such a garment indicated that he wanted to do something rather than to lounge about all day in his pyjamas, a thought backed up by his next statement. "I think we should move back home." He'd been giving it serious thought. As much as his childhood home was comfortable, he'd spent months there, and wanted to go back to Baker Street, where he felt he could survive as more than the mentally ill little brother of a prominent government agent. A place he could be himself. "To Baker Street."

"…right." John suddenly felt uncomfortable with that idea. Yes, it was their home, yes everything they'd been together was there, but so were the ghosts of nightmares. That was where Jack had been so brutal to Liam that he couldn't even say his name. That was where Avery had repeatedly come onto John before he was ready. Where there had been screaming, where Moriarty had invaded their privacy, where drugs had been taken and withdrawal lived through. Where terrifying voices had plagued both of them. The stairs John had thrown himself down when there was no Sherlock to save him. The bathtub Sherlock had tried to drown in when there was no John to pull him out. John frowned. "Right," he said again, distantly. "Um…are you…are you ready for that yet?"

Sherlock looked at John's reaction. _Yes, but you're not._ "Yes, I think I am. Of course, I'm expecting a preliminary visit will help me figure out a definite answer to that question." He didn't want to go back if he couldn't have John with him. It was definitely a place of nightmares and horrors, yes, more for Sherlock than for John, but it was also a place of safety and warmth. Somewhere permanent. Somewhere he laughed, somewhere he smiled, somewhere he slept without fear. "We should at least try."

Getting no further response, Sherlock swallowed and decided to head downstairs. A full breakfast was waiting for each of them, and Sherlock tucked in without waiting for Mycroft to finish preparing his own. "Want to go home," he said around beans before swallowing. "Just a thought. New year, John's back, I'm…better than I was, even with the panic attack of last night, I feel rather useless here." Useless wasn't the word, though. He felt like a dependent. Someone who had to rely on others to continue to exist, someone who couldn't live apart from his family. Only instead of the stereotyped son still living with his mother at almost forty years old, he was living with his older brother. It bothered him.

"Have you spoken to John about it?" Mycroft spooned his eggs onto his plate.

"Yes, obviously, just in passing. I'm hoping to discuss it later."

"Keep his feelings in mind. He may not be up to the task and it might awaken unpleasant memories." The elder Holmes turned around just as John arrived, placing his own food on the table and taking off his apron. "Good morning, John."

"Good morning, Mycroft, John said, sliding into his chair. "Bloody freezing today." But the Holmeses were not ones for idle chat and the table soon fell silent apart from the sounds of rustling newspapers and clanking breakfastware. John picked at his tomato, only half-hungry though he knew he should eat more. He was thinking of Baker Street breakfasts, contributions from Mrs. Hudson's sister's homemade jams, tomatoes from a small plant of Mrs. Hudson herself, herbs and eggs and everything else from Tesco. Not so with Mycroft. He had the money and power to serve them only the best, and for a moment, John wondered about the lack of house-servants, maids and the like.

"I'm not overly fond of people," Mycroft said as if reading more than John's body language. "Sherlock and I had a nursemaid, Mrs. Hastings, as children, but other than that, we have never employed hired help. We've always been…self-contained."

"Oh," John said as if he understood. "Okay. Simpler that way, I guess." He finished his food and took the empty plate to the sink. "And you know everything's been done just the way you like it, I suppose."

Sherlock shrugged. "Suppose so." He'd not thought of Mrs. Hastings in a long time, a silly old woman who was verging on senility but who helped Mrs. Holmes through the earliest of child-rearing years and who had kept Mycroft company while his mother tended to the youngest child. Sherlock would obviously not remember her as well as his brother did, but he did remember never having quite been comfortable in her presence, a certain smell he'd never liked, the way her rheumy lungs wheezed.

They didn't speak again until both brothers had finished their breakfasts, as John had gone to watch the telly, and when someone did speak, it was Sherlock. "I was hoping we could go and at least take a look at it today. Home, I mean." He sat beside John. "Decide from there."

John admired Sherlock's persistence, but still didn't feel quite comfortable with that idea. "I know," he said. "I expect the others want to go home, too, but I just feel like it's the scene of crimes I've committed and I don't really fancy facing that just yet." Sherlock nodded sadly, and John continued. "I know, I know, you've been cooped up here for months and you really want to go home, but think of how it would feel if I wanted you to go back to where Avery'd killed people. I know it's not quite the same, but you wouldn't feel comfortable." Sherlock agreed with John's statement, if reluctantly, and John continued. "Let's try for tomorrow, though. Okay? I promise we'll try tomorrow."

Sherlock sighed. Too soon. "I…yes, I understand, I think." He stared at the television, disappointed he wouldn't be going home yet, or at least trying to see if he could cope with everything that had happened there, things he'd best not think about. The bad things cast a shadow, yes, but the good ones were the ones he needed to focus on. "I've…" He swallowed, trying to figure out how best to put his emotions into words. "I've been desperate for you, while you were gone. Every night, I dreamed of you. Liam hallucinated you for a while, then even that was gone." He'd told all of this to John before, just a few days prior, but it made him feel better to say it again. Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know why I've become so dependent. We're addicted to one another. Without one, the other suffers so horribly it becomes agony."

There it was again, that confusion. Sherlock didn't understand that what he was feeling was love. John knew it wasn't the traditional sort of romantic love, which was probably why Sherlock didn't understand, but John knew that's what it was. "I love you, too," he whispered as half-explanation, half-reciprocation. "And I know you do love me, just in your own way. It's not what you see on telly, Sherlock, but it's still love." _Even if it's more the love of a lonely child to a protective parent than lovers._ He leaned over onto Sherlock and realized he was crying, just slightly. "Why can't you see that, Sherlock?" He took his hand as his voice broke. "Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

Sherlock held John's hand. "Because…" _ Because I can't love. I am not human, not in that sense. Because it's the most alien of all emotions. Because it feels wrong when I do, through the altered neurochemistry of medication. Because I wouldn't like it for anyone except you, and when I do feel it for you, it doesn't make sense._ "I've spent my whole life knowing I'm not capable of it. Familial love is…it's still strange to me. That's more a bond required for survival than anything else." He rested his head on John's. "Friendship can be argued to be a certain type of love, and even that's not easy for me. After what happened with Victor, the first time I allowed myself that level of intimacy required by friendship, it hurt so much I didn't want to try. That I tried not to." He was quiet for a moment. "Then there was you. First time in ten years I found someone I actually liked enough to want to attempt to let in. And it burned. Not at first, of course, but…" He tensed up. Letting John in had led to the whole mess. If he hadn't let himself care, John would be dead or worse, yes, but Sherlock would be sane. Everything would be easier.

He hated himself for thinking of that.

Sherlock pulled away and stood up, leaving the room as quickly as possible, wanting to be away from the person that, for an instant, he almost wished he hadn't given everything for. _So I don't love him after all._

_What was that about?_ John waited for a few minutes, worried about what Sherlock had thought about, why he'd trailed off before running off, and then followed him to the bedroom. The room was dark, and Sherlock was in his bed, curled up into a ball, not moving a muscle. "Hey, you okay?" John cautiously sat down beside him and looked into his face. There was hate and misery in his face, anguish, despair. John laid down and put his face a few inches from Sherlock's. "Hey, it's okay, you're fine. Whatever it was, you're fine. I love you, please don't fall like this." Sherlock still didn't respond, so John put his hand on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, please. Say something, do something." Nothing. John felt hot tears sliding down his face, realizing what Mycroft had said about Sherlock having empty days, and that he seemed to have slid into one of them. John kissed him gently and lay an arm around the prone figure. "I'm here, Sherlock." He pulled him close. "I'm here."

There was no conscious thought in Sherlock's mind. Liam seemed to be trying, playful songs getting a few notes in before trailing off, but nothing was happening. He could tell John was there, he could feel the warmth of John's presence, the rhythm of his breath, the humidity of the exhalations, but he couldn't respond to them, couldn't even try to think of something to do to let John know he still existed. He was empty. He wasn't even able to be sure he was still alive.

No sense of time made it to his head, either. He just faded into sleep after sixteen hours of nothingness, John by his side, occasionally whispering to him, kissing him, stroking his face, moving his curls out of the way, or just pulling him closer. John only ate the sandwiches provided by Mycroft out of necessity, and tried to get Sherlock to eat them, but it was no good. Then night came, and John's eventual soft snores helped lull Sherlock into an empty, dreamless sleep.

When John awoke, Sherlock was sleeping beside him, so close there was almost no distance between them. One or the other had pulled too close, probably John, since it look like Sherlock hadn't moved all night. But at least he was sleeping. John, for his part, had had a nightmare, about Sherlock having his soul pulled out by a dementor with the face of Moriarty, left as nothing but a husk in John's helpless arms. The dream had gone on for what felt like weeks, Sherlock staring into nothingness, John having to treat him as though he were in a vegetative state again. But now that he was awake, he hugged Sherlock tightly, wiped his incoming tears on his friend's suit, and tried not to shake.

Liam opened his eyes and kissed John's forehead. "Don't cry, angel," he whispered. "I love you." He put his almost-free arm over John and hugged him. "You don't have to cry because I love you and I never want you to be sad ever." He kissed his forehead again, waiting for the tears to go away, and eventually untangled himself and sat up. He looked very rested, very peaceful, which was more than could be said for John, and stretched with a grin on his face. "I slept a lot!" He was so woozy that he tumbled out of bed with a childlike giggle, and padded out of the room, returning a few moments later. "I had to pee," he explained. "I didn't want to pee in the bed or on you, that would be yucky." Liam flopped down beside John, who was still lying down, and looked into his eyes in that very innocent way that Liam had. "What are we going to do today?"

John returned the gaze, a little bit sad that it wasn't Sherlock today, but as always, Liam put him in a relatively good mood. "I dunno, I was hoping you could pick." Liam pouted. "Or, I could pick, since that seems to be what you want." John kissed Liam's nose, and the child in Sherlock's body giggled. That always made John smile. "We could go back to the forest, go to my spot, do a bit of hiking and then go eat at Angelo's." He shrugged. A nature-walk with Liam would definitely help John feel better, to hear the childlike amazement at the beauty of life come from his best friend. "I'd like that, would you?"

Liam nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes, I would love to visit your happy place again! It was pretty!" He grinned in his lopsided way. "I'd like to take my camera, too, to take pictures of all the prettiness. And you, too, because I think you will be happy too and I want to have pictures of happy John to look at when I'm sad because you being happy makes me happy." He reached over and hugged John. "I love you, angel! You're perfect."

"I dunno about perf—" John was cut off by Liam's hand. Liam shushed him, and John smiled. "Okay," he said, once Liam's hand was removed. "Perfect I am, I guess." He felt good saying that, and it helped ease some of his doubts, just the words and knowing someone else believed them completely. "Well, let's get up, okay? If we're going to the forest, we should be presentable." John got up and went to the shower, taking as short but thorough a shower as he could, not wanting to waste any time.

When he came out, Liam was staring out of the window at the London skyline in the reasonable distance, with a glass of water in his hand. John came over and sat by him, sliding onto the antiquated window-bench and wrapping his arm around Liam. "Heeey," he said. "You okay, you look a bit distant," he added, seeing that Liam was suddenly more interested in the window than anything. "Is something wrong?"

Liam flopped over onto John's shoulder and spoke very quietly. "I love you," he said sadly. "I love you a lot, I love you so much I might explode." He rubbed his eyes and sniffled. "I don't like the sad-clouds in my head. They hurt because I try to be happy and I can't and sometimes they come quickly." He pulled John closer. "Please make the sad-clouds go away, John…"

John sighed sadly. "I don't know how, Liam." He kissed Liam's head. "I wish I did, then I'd make them go away for both of us, but I don't know how." He rubbed Liam's arms comfortingly, the way Harry had when John had had a nightmare as a child. "I love you too, so much, all of you, and it hurts me just as much to see you hurting." He wiped Liam's tears away, too, before an idea hit him. "Tell you what, ice cream makes you feel better, right?" Liam nodded weakly. "Let's go out and get the biggest ice cream cone we can find, I'll pay, and you can have whatever flavour you like."

Liam hugged John. "That sounds like a very good idea," he said. He took a deep sniff of John's shirt before pulling away to see a very confused John. "I like the way you smell," he said. "It's a good smell. It's a John-and-soap smell." He stood up and went to his closet, choosing a light green shirt and his favourite pair of jeans, along with a light knit jacket. He took them to the bathroom, took a quick shower himself, during which Avery awoke and decided that he was going to belt out every song he could, and strode into Sherlock's room completely in the nude. "Hello, hand…some…" Avery swayed on his feet and looked as though he might faint, but then his expression softened into Liam's, who instantly tried covering himself with his hands, falling to his knees. "No! No! No!" He was crying. "No naked, no naked!"

John rushed forward and put his hands on Liam's shoulder, causing him to recoil, before digging through the drawers and finding Liam's lucky boxers. "Shh, it's okay, it's okay, no one's going to hurt you, not while I'm here. Just put these on and you'll be fine, okay?" Liam managed to pull himself out of his terror, sliding on his boxers before hiding under the covers on his bed, crying helplessly. John sat on the bed and brushed Liam's hair from his face, shushing him gently. "It's okay, Liam, it's okay."

There was a knock at the door, and Mycroft poked his head in. "I heard him give a shout, is everything okay?"

"Yeah, Avery came in here without any clothes and it made Liam panic." John sighed. "You're okay, Liam, I promise. Hey, can you get the clothes he set out? They should be in the bathroom."

Mycroft nodded. "Of course. One moment." John kept stroking Liam's head, kissing his forehead, and trying to reassure him that he'd be fine. "Here you are. I trust everything else will be fine?" John nodded.

"Here you go, Liam. Please put your clothes on, then we can have that ice cream, okay? And then we'll go to my forest."

Liam reached out for the clothes with shaking hands, and managed to dress before falling back into the bed and crawling over to John. "I'm scared, John, I don't like being naked, I don't, even in the shower I wish I could have clothes. Bad things happen to naked people." He spent a few minutes trying his hardest not to cry, but failed completely, and decided to just breathe in the smell of John-and-soap that he found so comforting. "I'll be okay with you here," he said as if telling himself. "I know you'll protect me, you and My." Liam pulled away at long last, with very red eyes still too wide. "I think I'm okay to go get ice cream now," he said, though he didn't sound terribly confident that that was true. "I want ice cream now," he rephrased.

John rubbed Liam's hand. "Okay, then," he said with a bit of a forced smile. "Let's go get ice cream, and then go to the forest." He helped Liam up, his arm beneath the other man's, and held hands with him as he loaded up his pockets with phone and wallet. Liam brought his shared iPod, along with earbuds, and his camera, making sure the battery was fully charged. His phone and wallet came, too. "You ready?"

"Yes," Liam said nervously. "I don't know why I'm scared, we're just having ice cream and I already took all my pills." He smiled sheepishly and squeezed John's hand tightly. "Sherlock's waking up a little but not enough. He wants me to tell you thank you." Liam reached down and kissed John on the cheek, very gently, very childlike. "That was from me." He smiled, more confidently. "Okay, I'm ready."

"Come on, then," John said, linking his arm in Liam's and walking out the door. They took a cab, and John and Liam played word games until the latter was clearly more relaxed than he had been, and when they pulled up to the little ice cream shop, his eyes went wide. John laughed. "You can have whatever flavour you want. You can have up to three, any more than that and you might get sick, and we don't want that."

Liam smiled softly and pointed to vanilla, strawberry, and cherry. "I want the vanilla in the middle," he said. The cone was absurdly high for anyone, let alone an adult of Sherlock's stature and bearing, but Liam, as usual, didn't seem to care. He sat and ate his ice cream in near silence, except for the occasional laugh, and he kept getting ice cream on his nose and chin and licking them off. "I feel better," he said, after somehow managing to finish every bite of frozen treat and cone. "But I'm all excited and hyper now." He grinned in his lopsided way, and John wondered why it was so crooked. Was there damage from something that partially paralysed the nerves required? Sherlock had never been one to smile, and when he did, it had always been subtle. Small. What had happened that made his grin, his wide, total, carefree grin so strange? He decided to ask later. "Do we get to go to the forest now? Please please please please please?"

John smiled. "Of course we do." He stood and led the way to the street, hailing the cab, watching Liam be incredibly excited at everything around him as usual. _This isn't right,_ John thought with a heavy heart. _This isn't how he should be acting. This isn't Sherlock, this isn't healthy. This is wrong. No one should be like this. No one. And it's my fault for not fighting back hard enough._

His thoughts must have shown on his face because Liam was now looking at him sadly, before pecking him on the cheek. "I'm okay, I'm just…" John hadn't realized he was tearing up, but now that he did, he wiped it away. "I'm worried about you, that's all. I love you a lot, you know that, right?"

Liam nodded. "I know you love me and you know I love you. I'm sorry Sherlock's head got broken…" He looked almost ashamed of existing, ashamed that he was the product of pain and torture. "I love you, alwa…"

He squeezed his eyes shut, and it was Sherlock again, and he put his arms around John, feeling very broken and very diseased. "I need this, John. I need you, I need Liam. I need happiness. I need—" He broke off as the cab arrived, and only reluctantly broke his hug then. "I feel so very…ill." Sherlock was trying to keep from crying, too. "So ill. But better with you, with Liam." He lay his head on John's shoulder and closed his eyes as John gave the address of the little patch of forest.

"I know," John tried to say comfortingly, linking Sherlock's hand in his. "I know. And I feel better with you. I mean, I know what I'm going through doesn't compare, but…having you with me makes me better." He rubbed Sherlock's hand with his thumb comfortingly as he felt Sherlock drift into a trance or sleep or something—John couldn't really tell what.

The cab fare was exorbitant, as was to be expected for a distance that far, but John was more than willing (and, thanks to Mycroft, able) to pay it. He roused Sherlock when they arrived and smiled as the detective yawned and stretched. "We're here."

Sherlock rubbed his face just as a camera flash went off. John had nicked Liam's camera and had taken a picture of him getting out of the cab. "Hey," Sherlock said. "I don't take photographs of you after you've just woken up from a cab ride. Not anymore." But it wasn't without good humour, and the two of them set off up into the forest.

He paused to look at a butterfly, and that woke Liam to codominance. "It's a pretty butterfly," he whispered. "Hello," he added, taking a picture. John smiled at the innocence Liam gave off as he marvelled at the world, and that made everyone involved soften. "That was pretty," Liam told John. "Did you see it?"

"Yes, I did," John smiled. "You're right, it was very pretty." The two of them kept walking until they came to the little brook surrounded by stones that made for perfect sitting spots, and John sat down, beckoning Liam/Sherlock to do the same. "I love you," he couldn't keep from whispering, squinting out the light from the little patches of snow still remaining. "I just…I love you."

Liam's answer was a kiss on the cheek. Sherlock said nothing. He lay down beside John and lay into his shoulder, crying softly. It was a bundle of exhaustion and happiness and rage and despair and gentleness all flowing out at once, emotional detox in the heaven of the person he trusted more than any other. "Just…give me…a bit."

John completely understood where Sherlock was coming from. Everyone needed to let it all out from time to time, perhaps Sherlock who bottled his feelings more than most. John sighed and leaned onto Sherlock, holding his hands and listening as Sherlock went from silent tears to juddering silent sobs, and rubbed the detective's shoulders comfortingly the whole time. This was what they both needed, and soon, despite the cold, both fell into an eerie peaceful sleep.

Liam woke up before John did, and gently moved his camera into place to capture the look on his friend's face. John was beaming in his sleep, smiling so widely that Liam thought he must be visiting heaven. It was a good look, the best look Liam could ever see on his friend's face, and he didn't want to disturb it. He sat, watching John for the better part of an hour before the sun started to go down and he started to get very cold. "John," he whispered after kissing John's head. "John, it's cold."

The doctor stretched. "Yeah, it is a bit, isn't it?" He kissed Liam's nose and took out his phone, calling a cab before relishing the sunset. Liam snapped two pictures, one of John in profile against the sunset, and one of the sunset itself. "Come on," John said. "Let's go before it gets dark. I know you aren't exactly fond of the dark." Liam looked worried and nodded vigorously.

The cab arrived in good time, and they piled in in much better spirits than on the way. "You know, Liam, Sherlock was wanting to move back to Baker Street if I thought I was ready. I think maybe I am. Would you like that?"

_YESnotsuredon'tcareobviouslyit'shome_. Liam winced as the burst of simultaneous thought tried to come out all at once. "Sh…Sherlock says he's not sure, Avery says he doesn't care, but I would like to." He twisted at his scarf, head still reeling. "That was a lot of people thinking all at once, that hurt." And then, in Avery's growl: "Wherever you'll be, I'll be satisfied. I do miss Baker Street, but if you don't want to, I'll stay with you. It's a place, that's all." A slight smile, Sherlock's voice: "So much has happened to us there. But I think it would be a step toward healing. Yes. We should go back."

John sighed, the decision made, and now that it was, he felt much better. "Okay, but I think we'll wait a few days. I'll call Mrs. Hudson and have Anthea or Mycroft or someone take everything back. Maybe it'll be right when we get there, set up like it was." He smiled broadly. "You know what, I think everything's looking up, I think we'll be fine." Sherlock (or whoever) snuggled up next to him with a hug, and that was that. John would tell Mycroft that night that they were ready to go home, and in a few days, they'd be moved into their proper home, all Jack's damage undone, and be happy—or at least contented—once again.


	19. Birthdays and Bullets

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," John said as he opened the door to 221B. January sixth was upon them, and just like the same day last year, it marked a return to home after a painful ordeal. Fortunately, perhaps, not quite as painful, not quite as blackening, but an ordeal all the same.

When the door swung open, he was glad to find that someone—probably Mycroft or Anthea or someone like that—had put everything back where it had belonged, as near as John could tell, anyway. It looked and felt like home, and there was a fresh cherry pie on the table, baked by Mrs. Hudson. "Welcome home."

Sherlock smelled the familiar smells, saw the wallpaper and the clutter and the organization, and smiled. This was home. His things, along with Avery's and Liam's, and, more importantly, he thought, John's. He sighed with relief, and moved towards the pie lying on the table, with a note on it wishing him a happy birthday. "No sense waiting on the pie," he said.

John grinned. "No, there really isn't." He moved to the cabinets to get a knife, and Mrs. Hudson (presumably) had left numeral candles reading 37 in the drawer, clearly to be used on the pie. "Well, someone knows it's your birthday, Sherlock, they left candles." He swung around with the knife in hand and placed the candles on the top of the pie, in the latticework, lighting them. "Make a wish," he said.

"What, no singing?" Sherlock was teasing, of course, he'd never stood on ceremony of that type, and had no desire to start now. Nevertheless, he closed his eyes and made his wish—_If there is a higher power, please keep us safe, please keep us sane. Don't let things get any worse for us_. He blew out the candles in a full breath and softly smiled. The smile hid, or tried to hide, his intense worry that this year would not be an improvement over the last, that somehow things could get worse, that his mind would slip away even further, that John's would abandon him. And when John cut into the pie, all Sherlock could see was red sticky fluid on the knife, and it sent his stomach cold.

Seeing Sherlock go so pale and so distant so quickly made John start to panic. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?" There was no answer. Sherlock was frozen in place. At first, John couldn't work out why, what had set him off, but then he looked at the knife in his hand and remembered that Avery was a killer. He immediately put the knife down and held Sherlock's shoulders, staring into the eyes which suddenly seemed so completely afraid. "Sherlock, it's okay. I'm here. No one's been hurt. I'm fine, you're fine, it's just a birthday pie." Nothing. "Sherlock, please, don't go empty on me, not today, not on your birthday, I'm begging you." John felt his eyes welling up and he reached over and kissed Sherlock gently in the hopes that it would revive him in some way. "Please."

Sherlock heard John's voice, heard him pleading, and somehow it reached him through the fog. "J…John," he said softly. "John. John." He blinked repeatedly and eventually came back, slowly aware that John was in front of him. "Sorry," he said, weakly but growing stronger every second. "It was the pie filling." He took a deep breath. "Thank you for bringing me back."

John hugged him. "I'm your best friend, I love you, and I'm being paid to look after you. I would bring you back from the darkest pit of Hell if I had to, and I know you'd do the same for me." Sherlock's arms wrapped around him in return, and the embrace lasted for what felt like ages. "Now," he said quietly. "Let's have some birthday pie. I'll cut the pieces in here, you can sit in the living room. How does that sound?"

Nodding shakily, Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I think that might work." He rose and made his way to his chair, taking great pains to feel along every surface, to tell himself he was fine, he was home, he was safe. When John finally brought the pie, cut more sloppily than not, Sherlock made sure to force himself to understand these were cherries before him and not something else. He took a deep breath. "I'm home, John. I never wanted to be away for longer than a month, not again, not after those three years. As sentimental as it is, I need this place as much as I need you." He felt very mentally ill, very defective and broken. "I need things. Steady things. I need them not to change and I need them to be there for me when my head yanks the rug out from under me." He bit into his pie and felt comforted by it, as if things were normal again. As if nothing was wrong. He smiled. "This is good. The pie. Being here. My birthday."

John smiled, too. "Yeah, it's good to have you back. Happy thirty-seventh." He finished his own pie before pulling out a small box. It had been tricky to get a present without Sherlock finding out, since the two had almost never been apart, but he'd managed. "Happy birthday."

Sherlock looked at it curiously and opened it. Inside was a small figurine, made of wood. It was a tiny little violinist, exquisitely carved and perfectly hand-painted. It was beautiful, and Sherlock smiled gratefully. "This is beautiful, John."

"I'm glad you like it," John said with an equally content smile. "It wasn't easy to find something without you knowing about it, the way you snoop, and I mean that in the most loving of ways." He reached over and took Sherlock into an embrace. "Oh, God, I never want to lose you, Sherlock, not ever, oh God, just…happy birthday, I love you so much, I just…you're everything to me and I need you just as much as you need me."

Sherlock was caught off-guard by the suddenness of the embrace, and, without hesitation, returned it. "I'm here, John, I'm not going anywhere, not while you're here, I promise." They sat like that for what must have been over an hour, Liam waking up to hum, Avery to promise, but for some reason, they didn't leave one another's embrace for the rest of the night, and, in fact, fell asleep there in the living room, clutching one another dearly.

All was normal for several more days, as normal as the life of these two could be, and then it was time for Avery to have a birthday. Sherlock was awake at the start of the day, fronting as he thought about how this time last year, he was in a drug-overdose-induced coma, how he'd not yet killed a man, how he hadn't realized the split…he was still himself.

_A shattered self. A self who had spent the last week and a half moping in bed, too afraid and too damaged to move. A self who thought drugs were the only way out, who thought the best reaction was to wallow in his pain._ Avery stood in front of Sherlock, glaring him down, challenging him and demeaning him all at once. _Stop it, Avery, please. You don't have to emulate fath—_ Suddenly Sherlock couldn't breathe, hallucination too real, cutting off his airway, making it impossible to take breaths. "J—!"

"Shit!" John saw Sherlock struggling to breathe, but there were no obvious signs of what was happening. "Sherlock, what's happening, come on, have you taken something? I need you to answer me, please, for fuck's sake, answer!" Sherlock was going blue already, and trying to mouth one word—_Avery_. "God damn it, Avery, let him go, alright?"

Slowly, slowly, the apparition of Avery was letting go. Sherlock gasped for breath, but he didn't have much time before a wave of dizziness and nausea overtook him and suddenly all was black.

Avery sat up, looking angrier than usual. "He fucking compared me to our father," he spat. "Just because I said how much of a wreck he was this time last year." He took a few deep breaths and stood up. "No one has the right to compare me to that filth, no one. Just because we have the same _fucking_ name doesn't mean a damn thing."

"Just…calm down, okay?" John was a bit exasperated. "Just because someone insults you doesn't mean you need to try to hurt them, especially not when hurting them hurts you." He reached over and pecked Avery on the cheek, even though it might be dangerous right now given Avery's mood. "Happy birthday. I know you like chocolate, so I actually tried baking for you." He led Avery into the living area, where there was a chocolate bundt cake dripping in hot fudge, with a single candle atop it. "I mean, I had some help, but hey."

"Butt cake," Avery giggled. "I'm half-surprised you didn't get those fondant dicks." He was amused by the thought but let it pass, preferring instead to light the solitary candle, staring at it almost longingly before shutting his eyes, pausing, and blowing it out. "Thank you for skipping on the singing. Wretched tradition."

"Yeah, well, you know I'm not exactly keen on singing," John smiled, wondering what it was that Avery wished for. He wasn't wearing his _give me sex_ or his _please let me murder them_ face, so he must have wished for something else. But it wasn't like Avery at all to wish for things, he was generally a very rational person apart from the insane violence.

John watched as Avery cut the cake before remembering he had a present to give. "Oh, right, yeah," John said, retreating to the bedroom and taking the small box out. "Here's your present. It's not much, but, um, I thought you'd like it."

Avery opened the box and took out a small skull carved in obsidian. His eyes opened wide and he felt it gently. "This is gorgeous," he said, and grabbed John's shirt, giving him a chocolate-covered kiss. "Thank you." He dug into his cake again, and watched merrily as John did the same, playing footsie under the table, giggling, and being a happy couple, already settled back home, for the most part, even though it had been less than a week.

Avery was happy, John was happy, Sherlock was happy, and Liam was happy. Maybe it was because there was nothing but silence from the black menace that had so plagued them, the menace called Moriarty, but their lives returned to being as normal as possible. Both men had fits in their sleep, horrible nightmares and flashbacks, both had their days of deep depression, and Sherlock still had his empty days from time to time, but overall, things were happy. A good month passed, and John remembered something as he woke up in bed with Sherlock's form, having had a glorious Valentine's shag the night before. He quietly snuck out of bed and went downstairs, asking Mrs. Hudson for help with baking, and he woke Sherlock—or rather Liam—up in bed with chocolate chip pancakes with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. "Happy birthday, Liam."

Sherlock, who had been the one dominant, blinked dizzily as Liam took over. "My…my birthday..?" It was clear that he hadn't had enough time to wake up yet, and that the dissociation was keeping him a bit out of it, but it didn't take long for him to focus to get back to his regular energetic state. "My birthday! It's my birthday!" He acted as though this was a total surprise to him, and grinned and giggled, bouncing in the bed a little bit. "Happy birthday, Captain Liam!"

John grinned broadly, seeing Liam so happy despite the fact that things were so wrong for Sherlock. "Yeah, it's your birthday. Hang on, I know you don't like being naked, let me get you some clothes," he said, remembering Liam's aversion to nudity. Liam nodded and clung to the clothes John tossed him, before telling him to turn around. "John decided to sit and wait, facing the wall, and had a quiet moment of _this is so, so wrong_ before Liam let him turn back around. "Now, okay, this is your first birthday, so there'd normally be a candle, but I know you're nervous around fire, so I won't do that." There had been an incident where Liam had burned himself on the flames in the fireplace trying to reach for something that had fallen down in the back—it wasn't a horrible wound, but there had been second degree burns, and Liam had been wary of fire ever since. "But I am going to sing." He'd been working up the nerve to sing and broke out in a quiet rendition of Happy Birthday before reaching over and kissing Liam on the forehead. "Happy birthday, Liam. Happy birthday. Eat your pancakes and then we'll go out and do something if you want, or we'll just stay home and play video games or something. Whatever you want to do."

"I want to….cuddle," Liam decided. "All day. Just cuddle and watch telly and pet Louis." He flashed for an instant into a sad face—Sherlock's face—with eyes that pleaded for help, but then Liam returned. "Sherlock's sad because he wishes we never happened because he's scared." Liam's lip trembled. "He's very scared, always scared…" Liam forced himself to smile and took a bite of his pancake. "But I try to help him be happy." Then he nodded determinedly and cut off another bite. "I do make him happy but sad. Happy because I'm happy and sad because he got hurt to make me. But I'm here now and I love you and I love him so we should be a happy family. You're daddy and Sherlock is other daddy and Avery is the uncle and I'm the kid."

John sat down next to Liam and wrapped his arms around him. "I'm very happy that I know you, all of you," he said. "You're all so preci—" He realized he was crying and broke off, knowing it was going to be hard to pour out this part of himself, flashing back to Sherlock's suicide attempts, to the kidnappings, to the three years Sherlock had been "dead"…"You're all so precious to me, and you've saved my life so many times. I could never lose you, any of you." He shut his eyes, focusing on Liam's warmth, just breathing in his smell and loving his touch. "You'll always be my family, Liam, Sherlock, and Avery, all of you. I'm not gobgbg—" A piece of pancake had been shoved in his mouth in the middle of his words.

"Eat, silly," Liam said. "Don't be sad, okay? I love you too much to let you be sad." He reached up and kissed John on the syrupy lips, only the second time since he'd been created that he'd done so, and, just like the last time, he erupted into a fit of hysteric nervous giggles afterward. "I kissed a boy," he burbled after calming down. "I kissed an angel boy! On the mouth!" He giggled again and reached over to hug John's neck. "I love you, my perfect angel."

John let out a full laugh while Liam had giggled, and it was a more effective medicine than any the doctors could prescribe. While he never thought of himself as either perfect or an angel, when Liam said it, it always made him feel so much better about himself, and having such an innocent mind kiss him on the mouth made his own heart leap to his throat. "I love you too, Liam. So, so much." He returned the hug and pulled away with another grin. "My favourite pirate," he smiled. "Ever."

"Even more than Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Even more than Captain Jack Sparrow."

Liam smiled and leaned sideways onto John, relaxing into him as he ate the rest of his pancakes in silence. "Let's cuddle and watch Pirates all day. All four Pirates films. And…then we can watch Lord of the Rings all day. And we'll cuddle and have Mrs. Hudson bring us sugar and spice popcorn and then we can fall asleep cuddling because I love you."

"Sounds like a plan," John said. "But first you need to take your medicines. I don't want you having any bad awake-dreams, okay?" That was what Liam called his flashbacks, his hallucinations, being stuck in a traumatic memory. It always hurt to see someone so strong and brave as Sherlock (and company) dissolve into hysteria and terror after one simple little trigger. It almost always set John off, too, which was doubly bad for the overall well-being of the men in 221B.

John rose to get the medications and a class of chocolate milk for Liam, dry-swallowing his own, and handed them to Liam. "Here you go," he said gently. "I'll be right back to get the DVDs, okay?"

"Okay," Liam said, taking his pills obediently and drinking the milk just a little bit too quickly. His stomach churned at the influx of milk and he blinked hard. "Ugh," he said, lying back against the pillows. "I don't feel good," he told the air. But soon the radiant feathers of John's hallucinated wings started to light up the room again and Liam grinned. "My tummy hurts because I drank all the milk, but I drank all the milk because it was yummy."

John sat beside him and took his hand. "You shouldn't do that," he said. "I don't want you to feel sick on your birthday." He leapt up again and put the first DVD in the machine, turning on the television and placing the remote in his friend's hand. "Happy birthday," he said again and kissed his forehead. "I'm never going to get used to you being here, but I think I'm glad you are."

"I'm glad too so Sherlock can learn to be happy like he used to be maybe." Liam rested his head on John's shoulder and began rubbing his chin and mouth with his fingertips. "I love you always, John. You're my favourite friend, but don't tell anyone. I have nightmares when you're not keeping me warm. And I don't want you to ever ever leave ever." He was shy, lonely, and a little bit afraid, but with John, he was better. He snuggled up to his favourite angel and started the movie, soon smiling and laughing at all the right parts, not a care in the world.

John smiled when Liam pulled up next to him, so indescribably happy to be loved so much and to have someone (three someones?) to love in return. As warped as things had gotten over the last year, it was still good, still brilliant, still amazing. He wrapped his arm around Liam and just took in the warmth, the glow, and the love.

Liam fell asleep, not wanting to move from that spot, and soon actually began humming in his sleep, a bizarre but pleasant mixture of songs from various films that he knew with a bit of opera thrown in. It was a happy song, and the only thing that ended it was John's phone going off.

John chuckled at the sleeping detective, never having heard him sing in his sleep before, all the time they'd shared the warmth of covers or the embrace of one another's arms, and he almost cried with contentment. But then the phone went off and he shifted softly to get it. "Sorry, Liam," he apologised to the sleepily blinking figure. It was Lestrade on the other end of the phone, and John tried to focus, not daring to believe what he was hearing. "No, Greg, say that again, slowly?" Another pause. "Okay, should we come in?" Silence. "Gotcha. Give us…an hour or so to get ready if we can."

Liam rubbed his eyes sleepily, a little bit of Sherlock waking up, too, relaxed and almost happy as he listened to John talk on the phone. What could possibly need an hour to come in for? If it was Lestrade, it was probably urgent, but if it wasn't urgent, then why did he call? "Where are we going?" He sat up out of bed, watching John start to pull himself out of bed, too. "Did Greg have a present?"

"Sort of," John said, an awkward smile coming over his face. He wanted to wait until Liam was subdominant before he broke the news, since it could quite easily freak him out. "Er, I need to tell Sherlock something, I don't want to worry you." He kissed the top of Liam's head and hugged him, happy beyond belief at the news. "It's good news, though, really, really good news." He let out a little sob of happiness and decided to tell him anyway. "Sorry, they, uh, they caught him. Moriarty, I mean. He's in custody." John realized there were tears streaming down his face and let out a laugh. "They have him, Liam, Sherlock, Avery, they've got the bloody bastard in custody!"

Liam smiled and through him, Avery let out a laugh, swooping over and placing a very intimate kiss on John's mouth. "Ooh," Liam burbled at the motion, taking a few deep breaths, heady from the contact. "Does that mean we don't have to be scared of him anymore? I'd like to not be scared."

But then he paused, swooned slightly, and Sherlock was the one who spoke the most. "No, this…it's too easy. We have to go see him, we have to see if we can figure out the catch." He shook his head. "There's no reason for him to suddenly let himself be captured." Standing up, he got dressed quickly and threw on his scarf. "Let's go."

John followed him down to the cab and slid in beside him, equally nervous. Sherlock was right, after all, there was no good reason why Jim should let himself be captured, not when there were witnesses and evidence and all sorts of damning other stuff that could send him to prison for the rest of his life, even with a spooked jury. So there had to be some trick. "I'm worried, Sherlock," he admitted. "But we've got to look up about it. I mean, maybe Lestrade and that lot have just got things together for once, maybe they actually did catch him and make the right precautions." Sherlock's look told him he didn't agree, but John shrugged. "Look, we've got to hope, right?"

"I suppose, but there's no point in ignoring the obvious facts that Moriarty plays games. He always has, fatal ones." Sherlock bounced his leg up and down nervously, looking out the window, trying to make sense of his thoughts and the facts. "The only logical explanation is that he wanted to be caught for some reason, not sure why, but there's nothing else that could explain why he let himself be taken into police custody." Sherlock rubbed his face. "Maybe when we see him, we'll have a better understanding."

The cab pulled up in front of New Scotland Yard, and the two got out, almost instantly greeted by Lestrade. "I'll let you see him on one condition," he said. "You stay on the other side of the glass from him. If you say you can handle it, I trust you, but I'd rather not take any risks, and anyway, victims aren't supposed to meet the perpetrators for obvious reasons." He looked Sherlock up and down. "You think you're okay for this?"

Sherlock nodded, looking to John for support and almost comfort and followed Lestrade into the interrogation rooms. Moriarty was sitting on the other side of the glass, looking quite pleased with himself, smirking but not grinning. Sherlock watched him very carefully as he stayed silent, Lestrade asking and sometimes demanding answers. Moriarty clearly wanted a lawyer present or didn't think he had anything to worry about, so Lestrade finished up and left the room with a "We've got enough to convict for life anyway, this was just a formality." But then his dark eyes looked straight at the mirror—through it, and right at Sherlock, who tensed up involuntarily.

John shuddered, feeling the unpleasant feeling, too, and looked at Sherlock. "You okay?" He certainly didn't look it, but then, neither did John, really. Sherlock nodded, but seemed neither distant nor too upset, instead just cautious, but John's instincts told him to get out of there. "Okay, we've done what we came for, let's just get out of here." He pulled Sherlock with him out of the room and back into the main area, once again looking over his friend to make sure he didn't seem too poorly, and swiftly moved to the water cooler to get a little bit of water for himself and Sherlock. His hands were shaking, he noted angrily as he brought them back. "I'm fine," he reassured the cautious detectives. "I'll be fine, just give us a mo."

Sherlock drank the water thirstily and looked at John as if he were confused. "Liam shut like a clam, hard to feel him at all," he whispered so that no one else could overhear. "And the other is boiling with rage." He looked back towards the interrogation room and shook his head. "He knew we'd come," Sherlock said worriedly. "There was a plan, something he—"

Sherlock was cut off by the sound of bullets ripping through glass and people screaming to get down. It all happened so quickly, his first instinct—and Avery's—to protect John, who was barking orders with the best of them. It seemed there was more than one gunman, but all the bullets seemed centered on the desk Sherlock and John had been seated at, and Sherlock realized with some horror that he and John were the intended targets. "John," he managed to get out before a fresh spray started coming, and he threw himself forward onto the shorter if stockier ex-solder just as something sharp ripped through his chest. "J—" The gunfire stopped, or at least Sherlock thought it did, but he was going cold and numb and John looked absolutely terrified.

_No. No. This can't be happening,_ John thought desperately as bright red started dripping through Sherlock's shirt and onto his hands. _No. No. No. No._ Sherlock's silver eyes had that look that John knew too well from the military, the look of someone dying and in denial, and it took a few seconds for John to register that the gunfire had stopped. "Sh…Sherlock," he pleaded as the detective flopped over and leaned with his back to the desk. "Sherlock, hang on, please, just stay with me, I'm scared, Sherlock, I need you…"

"Medic," shouted Lestrade as he rushed over. "I need a medic over here now!" Lestrade looked horrified as Sherlock was starting to grow cold, trying to comfort him in any way possible, and decided logic and reasoning was going to be the best way. "We've got an ambulance on the way, Sherlock, just try to stay conscious."

_I am, idiot,_ Sherlock's mind screamed, registering that the pain was starting to fade. A very, very bad sign. Liam started crying through him and bloody hands reached for John, pleading for help, but all John could do was hold his hand and cry, too, watching the life slip away from the best and wisest man he had ever known. Sherlock's vision went before his sense of touch did, and then when that went, the last thing he felt was John's lips on his before he went cold and everything went dark.

John was numb as once again, he saw the paramedics take away what he was almost certain was the dead body of the man he had grown to fall in love with. His world went numb, even Lestrade seemed distant and alien, and he was escorted to the hospital as well, having received a grazing wound from the bullets. The shooter had long since left, as had Moriarty, and most of Scotland Yard was left to pick up the pieces of the mess.

John gave up hoping for Sherlock's survival as they stitched him up. He gave up hope of anything at all—he knew those wounds, knew where they went, knew Sherlock was dead. He had nothing anymore. The only thing he really cared about was gone.

"Dr. Watson?" A surgeon entered the A&E room where John was still sitting, hours after he had been stitched up. Mycroft, Sherlock's mother, Zap, Harry, and John's mother were all there, looking worried but oddly not mournful. _When did they get there?_ "Sherlock's alive and in the ICU now, in a coma, but otherwise fine."

"A…a coma?" _Not dead, John. Not dead. Not dead. _"I need…I need to see him," John managed, and the surgeon nodded before taking him to Sherlock's room.

"The bullet came within an inch of his heart, but it missed by some miracle. Anyway, we don't know how long he'll be under or if he'll ever come out, but he's here."

John took in the surroundings—life support systems, a television and radio, a small TV-tray desk for Mycroft or whoever was on duty to help keep Sherlock company. This was not a temporary set-up. This was long-term. John slid into the visitor's chair and just took Sherlock's hand, terrified that at any moment, that pulse would stop, and that the man who had saved him time and time again would be gone forever. "I love you, Sherlock, please come back. And Liam and Avery too, God, please come back…"


End file.
